Illegitimate
by kouw
Summary: The staff has been decimated, standards are dropping and Charles Carson is getting close to celebrating his thirtieth year in service of the Granthams. When a person from his past pops up uninvited at his party, Elsie Hughes investigates and finds out more about Charles Carson's past. Together Charles and Elsie walk into an unimagined future. AU. Includes OC.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Welcome, welcome, welcome! Ladies, gentlemen, boys and girls, today we find ourselves knee deep in an Alternate Universe fic requested by Hogwarts Duo! Commentary is very much encouraged and appreciated!

* * *

The sunroom is empty, the french windows that lead out to the patio are wide open. The muslin curtains sway in the breeze and Elsie Hughes, Housekeeper of Downton Abbey, stands on the threshold, soaking up the sun. She doesn't often get the chance to be truly alone, without an occupation. Of course she ought to be in her parlour, working on ledgers and rotas, or to be supervising her girls (they don't need much supervision these days, they know how she likes to see things done. Her authority comes easily - the strictness and forced maturity of her early years has made place for a calm maternal quality that gets the best from her maids).

She needs a few moments to collect herself. Her weekly meeting with Lady Grantham had not followed its' usual path. Normally Lady Grantham will ask Elsie how she is doing (to which she always responds 'very well, Milady') and moves on to questions about the running of the house. Today however Lady Grantham asked Elsie to sit, to which she had chosen a chair and had sat up very straight while she listened to her employer telling her that Charles Carson was almost thirty years* in the Crawley's employ.

Elsie's mind had drifted to the gallons of tea Charles Carson had carried up the stairs, the countless dinners he served, the hallboys and footmen he had trained. His loyalty and devotion to this house and it's inhabitants was incomparable. She had been shaken from her thoughts by a question, that she only just caught and she had answered that she doubted Mr Carson would like a fuss about his jubilee.

"You know what he's like, Milady."

When Lady Grantham had answered that she did, but possibly not as well as the Housekeeper, Elsie had blushed.

Now she just smiles at the thought of her blood prickling her cheeks, of course Lady Grantham had not meant anything untoward. She had simply established that nobody knew Charles Carson the way Elsie Hughes did. It's true: she knows him better than anyone, simply because they have worked together for so long, have shared so many sherries and cheese biscuits, so many worries and even sorrows. Joy too.

She tries not to think of the other ways she knows this good, kind man. It won't do to dwell on the fading colour of his chest hair, the taste of his lips. She swallows hard before turning and stepping back inside. She has no time to dwindle and daydream:

She has a party to plan.

* * *

She goes into his pantry, finding him hunched over his desk. There is a stack of letters to his left, his ledger in front and a cup of tea - no doubt cold - in the right hand corner. Hard at work, as ever. He is not the kind who daydreams or ponders. He saves his worries for the evenings where he sometimes discusses them with her over leftover wine. They don't have enough staff to keep up the high standards they have set themselves and it doesn't feel like the family minds very much. Lady Mary is leaving for Scotland soon, Lady Grantham is trying to persuade her husband to sell Downton Abbey and start over elsewhere. The house is filled with bad memories. The loss of the baby who wasn't meant to be, the loss of Lady Sybil, the loss of the Levinson's fortune. The war. The flu. The loss of Miss Swire, the death of Mr Crawley. The scandal surrounding the death of the Turkish diplomat, the scandal of Lady Edith's daughter - nothing stays a secret long where Elsie's concerned. Perhaps Lady Grantham doesn't know, it's a fact his Lordship doesn't - but Lady Rosamund knows and the Dowager knows and thus Elsie knows about the little girl who has Lady Edith's eyes and Michael Gregson's chin.

Secrets fall into Elsie's lap. Of course sometimes she has to shake the tree a bit, go through wastepaper baskets or perhaps listen at a grate or two, but she will always find out what's being kept from her.

She walks over to Charles quietly and puts her hand softly on his shoulder.

"Are you alright?" She asks and he nods stiffly. She kisses his hair, breathing in the smell of his pommade and something besides.

"Shall I fetch you a fresh cup of tea?"

He shakes his head and she smiles. "Alright, I'll leave you to it." She kisses him again and makes sure to close the door behind her. She makes her way to the kitchens to ask Mrs Patmore if she has a special treat for the Butler. Poor man is working much too hard, he deserves a bit of pampering.

* * *

"Go through your mother's things." Greg had said after she had told him she couldn't marry him if she didn't know who she was. "You never know what you'll find. Maybe there are clues." He did like his detective stories. And so Beatrice pulls poster after leaflet out of the box and feels she definitely deserves a treat after going through all this. Her mother's passing has left her feeling even more at a loose end than she normally feels, she is glad to have Gregory to steady her. She thinks of his proposal and his caring kindness, his wit and his spirit before pulling out a diary and a small stack of photographs**.

It's all that's left of her mother. Everything else had to be sold to pay for outstanding debts - Bea's mother had never been very good with money. She had not been good with money, she had not been good with routine and she certainly had not been good with children; Beatrice had been sent to nunnery after nunnery as a child, her mother always making a fuss when she was finally getting settled.

Her mother - who she was not allowed to call 'mother' or 'mum', but always had to address by her first name, because the scandal may out, if was so much easier if Bea was simply the child of a friend, glorifying the compassion and charity of Agnes' heart (or 'June's' - for her mother was known on stage as June Gray) taking in the poor orphan - had not cared much for Beatrice. Which she had always found rather odd, since her name meant 'bringer of joy'. According to her mother, little Bea had brought not much besides a whole lot of trouble. Thankfully the nuns had usually been quite good to her. Of course she had been whipped and had missed more meals than was healthy for a growing child, but it could have been worse.

She isn't angry at her absent father. He wouldn't have known of Beatrice' birth or existence. Agnes would have kept that from him; she liked her freedom too much, didn't like answering to anyone, especially not men. She liked the company of men and what they could provide her with, but she didn't like to give much herself.

Loving had not been one of her mother's talents. Agnes Matthews was selfish. A dreamer, calculating and a bit cold. A child was not what she wanted. Fame was, money was, freedom was. Men chasing after her and showering her in attention was. Though at times, when June Gray seeped through into Agnes Matthews, Beatrice would be gathered up in her arms and sung to. It didn't happen often, but when it did, it was wonderful.

Bea shakes her head and gets back to the task at hand: finding out about herself, about who her father might be. There are posters with her mother's stage name and an 'Alice Neal' as well as an act called 'The Cheerful Charlies'. Pictures of her mother with this Alice and a Charlie Grigg. Pictures of her mother in full costume. Her mother with Charlie Grigg, a candid shot where they are obviously bickering (another favourite pastime of Agnes Matthews). A picture of her mother with a Charlie Carson - her mother is looking calm. At peace. It's the only time Bea has seen her mother look so happy in a photograph.

She stares at the man in the picture. He is tall, with wavy hair and kind eyes. He has his arm around Agnes' shoulders and she is looking up at him. Beatrice' heart pounds painfully against her breastbone. Would her mother have made it so easy?

Is this Charlie Carson her father?

* * *

* About this fic: do not care about the actual timeline, because this fic won't make any sense. I blame JF.

** Onmyside is writing this AMAZING fic 'What remains of the past' that uses this same set up. I may have stolen it a little bit, but it's only important in the first (two) chapter(s) - I hope she isn't mad at me!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you so much for the encouraging reviews and notes on the other place for the first chapter! I hope I can live up to expectations and you will enjoy the second chapter as much as the first. Let me know if you (don't) like it - reviews are always really appreciated!

* * *

"I had not expected you would find out who he is so quickly." Greg says. They are sitting in a tearoom, the case with her typewriter stands on the floor under the table, her leg is pressed against his. His warmth makes her tingle a bit.

"Me neither." She pulls a poster and the few photographs of her mother and Charlie Carson from her purse.

"Look." She points. "He has this thick, wavy hair, like me."

Greg nods. "That is not much to go on, though." He says, ever practical. Beatrice frowns.

"No, but she was performing with him."

"I bet she was performing with quite a few people." Greg takes a sip of his tea and takes a cake from the plate in front of him.

"She had a solo act and also performed with this 'Alice Neal' person. 'The Cheerful Charlies' were apparently well known, I've come across them in her diary a fair few times."

"Wasn't there anything about a suitor or something in there?"

"Not really. She kept lists of gifts she received and from whom. Charlie Carson brought her flowers at least five times." Her heart is beating much too fast again. She is certain it's him - it cannot be Charlie Grigg. Her mother complained about him a lot in her diary and there are very few entries that could be traced back to a man in general. Of course there is the chance she is the product of something other than a quick romp, an illicit affair. That hers was a violent conception, but the words her mother uses to describe Charlie Carson are bordering on the effusive, leading Bea to believe her mother may have felt more than a passing affection for him..

She takes the diary and shows it to her fiance. "Here she says he waited for her after a show that ran particularly late and walked her to her digs. And here she writes about the flowers he bought her and an outing. Here she says she wishes Alice didn't treat him like dirt, that he is worth more than ten Griggses." She points at the scribbles.

"Let me see the photo again?" Gregory asks. He takes it from her with careful fingers and looks at it, a wrinkle between his eyes. Bea can only think of how much she loves him when he is so focused and concentrated. She imagines he might look like that when they kiss, shyly, chastely, when he takes her home, on the front steps before her landlady opens the door (gentlemen callers not allowed).

"He does have wavy hair like you." He finally says. Bea nods, leaning into his touch, his hand running softly over her blonde bob.

"I am going to try to track him down." She confides in him.

"You'll find him. I have no doubt you will. You can do anything you set your mind to." He takes her hand and kisses it softly, doing nothing for her hammering heart.

* * *

When he comes in with the decanter half full of Burgundy, she sees he is missing a button on his waistcoat and she shakes her head. 'How is it possible he keeps losing them?' she wonders. It's always the same button. She must have sewed on at least fifty over the years. Well, perhaps not fifty, but a great many nonetheless. He sits down with a sigh, putting the decanter on the table between them. He stretches his back, she can hear the vertebrae click back into place.

"Give me your waistcoat." She says before he gets too comfortable. He looks at her oddly. "Oh come now, my love. I am not asking you anything inappropriate. You have lost a button once again and I will endeavor to put another one on. Not have my wicked way with you."

Charles smiles and takes off his coat and waistcoat, giving the latter to Elsie and putting his coat back on. Elsie picks up her sewing basket and sets to work while Charles pours them their customary glass of wine and they speak of their day.

"I miss William." Charles suddenly says and Elsie looks up from her work.

"Och, my dear." She mumbles, unable to get the words out. It's been years and the pain is still fresh.

"I miss Alfred. I sometimes even miss Sarah O'Brien."

Elsie chuckles. "I find it hard to believe that."

"Well, I don't miss her as such, I miss how things were before the war and before everything started to go to pieces."

Elsie bites her lip as she watches Charles slip into a mood.

"You know it's been almost thirty years since you started here as a footman?" She tries to change the conversation.

Charles nods. "Yes. A lot has changed."

"Would you like to… oh I don't know… commemorate the day? Perhaps we could go for a walk or maybe take tea somewhere." She offers.

He nods again, staring into the distance. "Yes, alright."

Elsie worries. He doesn't usually give up so easily. Normally he would tell her they cannot both be missed at the same time, that perhaps standards are dropping but that they should nonetheless try to keep them as high up as they can and that it doesn't do for a servant to engage in such frivolous notions.

"So… tea in Ripon? Or York perhaps?" She tries again, finding him looking into his wineglass. "Or Manchester? London. No, I know! Paris!"

"What?" Charles looks up, his brow furrowed.

"Have you been listening to me at all?" Elsie asks, a soft smile around her lips and he looks down in embarrassment.

Elsie puts away her sewing and gets up. "Oh, my love…" She says and carefully lowers herself in his lap, wrapping his arms around her, pressing his head softly against her breasts.

* * *

She can see he is a little overwhelmed by the attention. He is used to ordering his boys about and to grumbling about the paper being late and to pour tea in the library but he is not used to Lord Grantham giving a little speech and being given an envelope filled with a handsome sum to show the family's appreciation. Elsie had stood in the corner of the room, undetected by her strong man who looked so small for a few moments before managing to find his bearings again.

"Thank you, Milord." He had said, his voice filled with wonder. "Thank you very much."

Elsie had smiled at Lady Grantham who had winked at her and now they are downstairs again. He sits in his usual place, a bit out of sorts because Daisy has put a ribbon around his chair and the table is filled with his favourites. There have been small gifts and Mr Bates even made a little speech about how Mr Carson is an example to them all.

Elsie sits next to Charles, her hand on his knee, drinking her tea quietly. Everybody looks happy - even Thomas doesn't wear his usual smirk. Beryl has joined them and is slicing a madeira cake, handing out pieces. There are strawberries and cream, apple pie. The youngest of the staff don't quite understand the hoopla, Elsie can see the idea of working in the same place for thirty years fills them with unease. Her heart swells with pride as he puts his free hand over hers and sighs deeply, finally relaxing a bit.

She pulls away her hand then and stands up. She has prepared a little speech, like Mr Bates. She doesn't often address the staff in this way and she can feel her heart speeding up just a bit, but he smiles at her as she stands and she starts:

"I've known Mr Carson for a very long time, as you all well know." She swallows before continuing. "First as a superior, later as - I hope - my equal. In all these years he has strived to be the best domestic servant a man could be and I'd say he succeeded. He is indeed an example to us all, as Mr Bates so aptly put, but to me he is more than that…"

Just as she was about to say that to her he was not simply a Butler, but a friend, a man she loved, there was a loud knock on the Servants' Entrance door.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thank you everybody for your support through reviews, PMs and messages at the other place - you have no idea how much it means to me! Please don't hesitate to let me know how you feel about this chapter!

* * *

It takes a while for her to finally get the silence she had demanded. Miss Matthews (shown in by a flustered Daisy. Miss Matthews looked too sophisticated to be a servant, but not enough to be a friend of one of the young ladies upstairs) is with Charles in his pantry and Elsie is frankly dying to find out what is going on.

She drinks her tea and eats her cake, feeling the loss of the Butler next to her. The atmosphere is one of barely contained excitement, like a school class the afternoon before the start of the summer holidays. Elsie knows she will have to manage them before she can see to Charles and she also knows that the arrival of Miss Matthews should not be common knowledge upstairs. Anna and Miss Baxter know better than to share such information, but Thomas is different. He will sew little seeds of mistrust wherever he can and this is an uncommonly fertile seed.

So Elsie corners the Underbutler and tells him in no uncertain terms he is to keep his mouth shut until they know more. She promises him inside information, only so she feels safe he will not spill anything before Charles is ready.

Before she herself is ready.

The party is over. Ivy and Daisy come in to clear away plates and dishes. Elsie hangs on to her teacup and asks Daisy to make up a tray for the Butler's pantry, with two cups and some of the treats they have been enjoying. She throws in a compliment or two, knowing which delicacy came from the girl's skilled hands.

She sends her maids up to various tasks, shoos the hallboys up to the second floor where grates are meant to be cleaned. Jimmy takes the hint and starts looking for his basket of polish and rags. Thomas smirks, but leaves to tend to something-or-other. Anna, Mr Bates and Miss Baxter bend over tears and buttons and lipstick stains.

Elsie hurries over to the pantry and knocks on the door - an allowance she makes for the man she loves, for she normally simply barges in. She doesn't have to wait long to be admitted.

* * *

He is looking older, but she had predicted that. Bea understands a man doesn't remain thirty for thirty years, but it is confronting nonetheless. His hair is slicked back, not a curl or wave in sight and he is wearing the uniform of a senior domestic servants: a starched shirt, tails and shoes that don't squeak even though they look new.

Charles Carson is tall and his voice is very deep and Bea has no trouble seeing why her mother was attracted to him. He has eyes that speak volumes and he must be very strong, even though he is no longer a young man. He has offered her a seat - it is not usual for him to have visitors, she can tell. This seat is normally occupied by someone he trusts. Not someone who popped up at a very inopportune moment. She has disturbed him during something important. As she was ushered past, she could see the makings of a party.

He hasn't spoken much to her, except for offering the chair. He looks like he is waiting for something, someone. Maybe he thinks she will start the conversation (which of course is logical, she is the one suddenly standing on his doorstep). They have sat in awkward silence when there's a knock and he jumps up to open the door.

Bea doesn't know quite what she had expected, but it wasn't a middle aged woman with dark hair and a Scottish accent who doesn't wait to be invited in to ask a simple question:

"What's all this then?"

* * *

There's a bit of a kerfuffle since there are only two chairs in the pantry, and then there's a maid with a tea tray, but finally the two women occupy the chairs and Mr Carson is sitting on an upturned wine crate and Bea starts her story.

Charles listens attentively, with rising surprise. Elsie can see it all in his face. His colour is coming back slowly. Miss Matthews is making her case: showing photographs and diary entries. The girl is convinced Charles is her father, Elsie feels it and can understand why.

After all, Charles is a kind man, a very steady man.

He would have been a good father, she thinks. The thought of having left it too late shoots through her mind, fleetingly. Elsie returns her focus to the young woman's life story.

An absent mother and a dislodged childhood, nunneries and coming of age all alone in small rooms over a bakery - it is no wonder the girl is seeking some kind of normality. She talks about her fiance, how she wants to know who she is before she marries him, that she needs some kind of anchor.

Charles doesn't speak much. Elsie can see the confusion in his eyes. Elsie is well aware he is not Beatrice Matthew's father. Had she not taught him the art of love and lust and comfort in pleasure some years before - long after the birth of this young woman? She knows him, she has made it her life's work to teach him how to kiss, how to touch, how to please.

Of course she cannot tell Beatrice this. So she sits and sips her tea, offers slices of madeira cake and little apple tartlets normally only intended for them upstairs.

She allows Beatrice' voice to wash over her and worries about Charles, who is all but her husband and who obviously doesn't know what to do.

* * *

They listen to her quietly, hardly interrupting at all. The air is heavy with something that brews between the Butler and the Housekeeper. They had introduced themselves after the confusion with the furniture and she had started her story, saying she didn't want to disrupt anyone's life.

To which Mrs Hughes had scoffed with a small smile around her lips.

"You've disrupted it already, so you'd better tell us why you're here." She had said and Bea had nodded. She told them everything while Mr Carson had softly touched the photographs and seemed to remember her mother at least. Mrs Hughes had picked up the photograph of her mother and Charlie Carson, the one where her mother looks so calm and at peace.

"After school, I found that I had to be independent. My mother still played the halls whenever she could, but she wasn't as popular as she once was and she wasn't able to support me. So Sister Mary Francis signed me up for typing and shorthand and she even got me a place at an office."

"You're a secretary then?" Mrs Hughes asks.

"Yes, I am Greg's father's private secretary. I am typing up his memoires. It will keep me busy until we're married." She doesn't tell them she is scrimping and saving every last penny of her pay to buy a wedding dress and a going-away ensemble. That she is steadily embroidering their initials on tea towels and that she has been skimming the papers for ads on property and rentals. She has even seen a doctor.

Now she has come to the end of her story and takes a deep breath before saying what she has had on her mind for over a week:

"Mr Carson, I really believe you may be my father."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Thank you all so much for your support, you guys are amazing. As always your commentary is very much appreciated, so please do leave your reviews.

* * *

She has to give it to the pair sitting there next to her, they do live up to their reputations. The Butler keeps quiet, eerily so, the Housekeeper has the start of a smile tugging at the corner of her lip.

"I don't think it could be somebody else." She adds, intimidated by the silence. "She is not complimentary about anyone else in her diary and she is only at ease in the photograph with you."

Mr Carson nods solemnly. "I can understand how you've arrived at your conclusion."

It's the first thing he's said since Bea started talking. Mrs Hughes had asked the questions, had spurred her on. She is a bit startled by his words, a bit taken aback by the way Mrs Hughes is looking at her hands as they are folded in her lap.

"You don't deny it? You knew about it? Did you know about me?" Her voice sounds shrill and magnified in the small, sparse room.

Her bout of hysteria isn't appreciated by the man across from her. His jaws clench as do his fists. Mrs Hughes is still not looking up, hiding her face from both Bea and Mr Carson.

"I did not know about you." He finally says. His words are measured, his voice controlled. "I did not know your mother had a child. I've not spoken with her since I left the stage, which must have been a month or two after this picture was taken." He takes a deep breath and Bea's eyes fill with tears as she anticipates what he is going to say.

"Not all who worked the halls were bounders and cads, Miss Matthews. Some of us were doing their utmost to be honourable. In fact I had an understanding with Alice Neal, the other woman in your photograph."

There's pain in his voice. Shame.

"So, what you're saying is that you are not my father?" She summarizes, for a moment giving in to the little voice in her head that just wants it to be him so much.

He shakes his head.

* * *

Elsie waits for Charles to answer the girl's question, ignoring the faint look of panic in his eyes. She cannot help but smile as she thinks how he had come to her, all those years ago, his heart in his hand, ready to give it to her and fumbling in his eagerness. Their kisses had been intense, her back pressed against the wall by the backdoor, the breeze on the moist patches on her cheek and neck making her shiver.

It had been a while since she had given herself to someone and she had quickly counted the days as he kissed her again, hungrily, his hand at the dip of her waist. She had concluded she could take the risk. She had pulled him closer, ravished his mouth hungrily, pressed her pelvis against his and he had startled, let go of her, stepped back.

She had grabbed his hands and pulled him back against her, one hand in his hair, the other one pushing one of his against her corset-covered breast. She would have let him have her against that wall if it weren't for him backing away again, flustered and blushing. She had asked him what was wrong, had wondered if she had been too forward, had misread the situation.

His stammers didn't conceal the message and she had loved him for it. She had led him upstairs, away from prying eyes and had gently undressed him, touched him softly and deliberately. He had been a bit surprised by her knowledge, the way she seemed so at ease with what she was doing.

Her experience gave her away, but she didn't mind. Not much. Not when she was standing naked before him. She had showed him how to touch her breast, how to slide his hands over the naked plain of her belly towards to curls and folds that hid her sex from view. She had taught him how to hold strong over her, had wrapped herself around him - not tightly, not like she would some weeks after that first time - and she had guided him inside.

The way he shook from emotion and excitement had moved her more than the sensation of being filled and stretched. She had held him close, had kissed his face, whispered tender words in his ear. She had told him she loved him.

And she had meant it, shocking herself more than him.

He hadn't lasted long after that and she had not minded, knowing in that moment this would not be a quick one off. He had rolled off her, pulling her against him, his breath erratic, his heart pounding and a look of intense happiness and wonder on his face and she had to admit to herself that she was completely in love with this man. Head over heels. Irreversibly.

And now he sits on that winecrate, talking to a girl who thinks she is his daughter (hiding his alarm admirably) and Elsie understands why the young woman beside her thinks she is his child. Beatrice Matthews is taller than most women, sturdily built, her hair dark and wavy. Her eyes are dark, like Charles's.

Beatrice looks exactly how Elsie would think a daughter of Charles Carson would look like.

* * *

Bea listens to Mr Carson share his memories of her mother. She hardly recognises Agnes Matthews in his stories, but there are bits of June Gray in there: the bursting into song, the wild gesturing when she spoke. She doesn't remember her mother ever being soft, in any way. Agnes had been very slender - bony even - and cuddles were only for the men who brought her flowers and gin.

She looks at Mrs Hughes. Mrs Hughes looks like a woman who would have cuddled her children, who would have held them when they cried, drying their tears with a handkerchief she had tucked up her sleeve.

Agnes didn't once comfort Bea when she cried. Or at least not that she remembers and she prides herself on her memory. She can still recite poetry and psalms she learnt in school as a nine year old, she can find notes Greg's father puts in his insane filing system (she refuses to call it an archive) and she can alphabetise a library at lightning speed.

But she doesn't remember her mother smiling at her, or her arms around her. She doesn't recall having been cuddled or tucked into bed. She only remembers the smell of cheap perfume, makeup and whatever drink Agnes had knocked back before coming close to her daughter.

"June was different from the other girls." Mr Carson says and Bea looks up at him.

"How?" She asks.

"She built a wall around herself, she was always so afraid to get hurt."

Bea scoffs. Hurt is part of life, it is senseless to run from it. Perhaps it's the reasoning of a child grown up lovelessly, of a woman aching for kindness.

"She had been hurt a lot. I don't know who your father is, but I have no doubt he didn't treat your mother much better than any of the other men who paid her attention."

A tear wells up in Bea's eye and she wipes it away impatiently.

"She should have thought about that before…" She starts and Mr Carson leans over the table, taking her hand.

"We don't know what happened." He says. His hand is dry and warm. Bea nods nervously. She isn't used to another person's touch, besides Greg's (who never crosses the line, never kisses her too long, never touches her where she's clothed, making sure she feels safe and cared for). "For all we know…" He doesn't finish his sentence and she understands.

"We'll put you up for the night, Miss Matthews." Mrs Hughes says briskly, her Scottish accent thick. "You must be very tired. Why don't you come with me and I'll find you a room."

Mr Carson lets her go and Bea stands up to follow Mrs Hughes.

She is being coddled.

She likes it.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Sometimes characters just don't play nice. No matter, I still think it's an okay chapter. Reviews and commentary appreciated.

* * *

Mrs Hughes leads her up narrow stairs into a dusky hallway. The floorboards creak under her feet. She is trying to remain calm, to regulate her breathing. She is cold, shivering.

_Charles Carson is not her father. _

Another piece of her heart seems to have broken off (it was never whole to begin with). The disappointment leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. There's nothing but a glimmer of light coming through the small window at the end of the corridor. Unshed tears are making it hard for her to see, but no matter how hard she blinks, she cannot seem to get rid of them until they fall from her lashes. The droplets make small stains on the skirt of her dress as she continues to walk, her head bent.

She almost bumps into Mrs Hughes who has come to a halt and opens a door.

It is kind they are putting her up for the night, especially after she had stated her business so plainly. She has no right to complain about the room that is assigned to her. She doesn't have to share at least and the bed linen is clean as is the room itself. It's empty, like a nun's cell. She was once used to hard cots and dirty garret windows.

She puts her suitcase by the end of the bed and takes a deep breath before letting it out slowly.

"Are you alright?" Mrs Hughes asks.

Beatrice nods slowly. "Thank you." She replies.

There is a gentle hand on her shoulder, and Bea is glad she is standing with her back to the Housekeeper so she can hide her tears. She tries to swallow away the lump that is lodged in her throat.

"You might want to freshen up and afterwards you can come down to the Servants' Hall. We have our dinner after the family, so there's no rush."

Mrs Hughes' touch and the sound of her voice are oddly comforting. Bea nods again, still unable to speak.

* * *

She has seen countless slumped shoulders and heard more tear-filled voices than she cares to remember and she knows Beatrice Matthews is in dire need of some time alone to pull herself together. She squeezes the girl's shoulder one last time and leaves the small room.

As she descends the stairs (she must have climbed them ten thousand times at least since she was shown into the attic decades ago), she thinks how desperate the young woman in Anna's old room must be. To go through your dead mother's old things, trying to find anything to help you along on your search for some kind of connection, to think you've found it (and that the man you think is your father is a caring man like Charles Carson) and to have all hopes shattered like a Christmas bauble falling on the floor from the highest branch.

She must be crushed.

Elsie finds her Butler in his pantry as predicted. He is staring into his teacup, a biscuit uneaten in his hand.

"Are you alright?" She asks after closing the door behind her.

He looks up, slightly startled. "I didn't hear you come in." He says.

Elsie rushes over, takes his cup and biscuit, places them on the table. He leans towards her and she cradles his head against her, not caring about the pommade in his hair. She stands like this for a few long moments before she asks again if he is alright.

"Of all things I had expected to happen today, this was not it." He sounds droll, tries to be lighthearted about it, but she knows he is tired and probably upset.

"Nobody could have expected this." She agrees. "It was definitely not what we had planned for you. This was supposed to be a happy day for you. You don't often get to be the one that's celebrated." She bends to kiss his brow.

"I don't much care to be celebrated." He admits and Elsie chuckles.

"Sometimes we just want to let you know we appreciate you."

"You often let me know you do…" His eyes are closed and Elsie has to bite her lip not to burst out in laughter. He obviously didn't mean anything by his words, but she thinks of the times she tells him 'you are wonderful' when they are curled up together in one of their small beds.

"I was going to let you know tonight, after everyone had gone up…" She says, her voice hoarse from the intense longing that suddenly washes over her. Charles immediately sits up, his eyes wide open.

"You really shouldn't be speaking of these things!" He admonishes. "Anyone could come in!"

Elsie shakes her head, rolls her eyes (really, she cannot help it when he is being ridiculous): "Do you really think I couldn't come up with an excuse? Like sharing a glass of my treasured single malt, or that I had Mrs Patmore make you a midnight snack? Oh ye of little faith." Now it's her turn to jest.

"But you are alright now?" She steers the conversation back to it's original topic. He nods slowly.

"I think I am. I mean… There's nothing to it, is there. She is not my daughter, we both know that and I think she does too."

"Yes. She does." Elsie thinks of the young woman upstairs and how her shoulders had shaken from holding back her sobs.

"She's a nice lass. A bit expeditious perhaps, coming here without giving us fair warning."

"I think she must be very lonely." Elsie ponders aloud before sitting down across from Charles and puts her hand against the teapot.

It's cold.

* * *

To distract herself she counts the goosebumps on her left arm. She shivers and starts again. And again. Gregory had warned her. He had told her she shouldn't put all her eggs in one basket, but she had been so certain - she is _good_ at finding things out. She is curious and resourceful, she is meticulous and efficient. She had simply not thought Mr Carson would not be her father.

She pulls the covers free from the tight corners and wraps herself in them. They smell of lemon and professional care. She doesn't quite know how to cope with this sudden loss. She is feeling emptier than she had when her mother passed away (of course she had been prepared for that, weeks of coughing up blood and spiking fevers, changing of sheets and nightgowns, doctor's bills and dealing with annoyed neighbours and seeing the life slowly pour away from her mother's slim body had been enough to smooth the way to the undertaker and vicar).

She thinks back to her walk from the village to the grand house, how she had knocked and the door had opened and a smiling young woman had stood there, obviously being pulled away from the middle of something. It turned out she had interrupted Mr Carson's jubilee.

Bea feels guilty she had come here today.

She feels stupid she has come at all.

She should have written, like Gregory had suggested. She should have copied the entries in her mother's diary and she should have included the posters and leaflets and asked to make an appointment.

She'll have to apologise.

* * *

Elsie is rounding up her girls, checking up on their chores, praising and admonishing in equal parts. Her heart isn't in it though, her mind solidly on her beloved Butler. She knows the maids will be discussing the strange events of the afternoon and she is trying to come up with a story to explain Beatrice' visit.

They can't say: 'This is Miss Matthews, she thought she was Mr Carson's daughter, but it turns out she isn't.' Well, she could, theoretically, but it would hurt both Charles and Beatrice; and herself.

Though why she isn't exactly sure of.

Maybe because Beatrice indeed looks like Charles and if she had been his daughter, it would have been a step closer to having that other way she dreams of when she is feeling low and vulnerable. Sometimes, when she has laid with Charles and he has fallen asleep, she stares up at the ceiling, thinking how they could have had it all: the bed big enough to hold the pair of them comfortably, the love between them celebrated, not covered. The children (even if they would have come late in life; Bea is much older than her own children would have been, had any come along), the home, the easy happiness that they feel when they are having a glass of wine, a glass of sherry late at night.

She shakes her head firmly, pushing these thoughts away. She is not the one she should be worried about now. She needs to look after Charles.

She needs to take care of the girl in the attic. Of the man who holds her heart in the palm of his hand.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Revelations, doubt and resolutions in the coming chapter. As always reviews very much appreciated and I just want to thank you all for your kind encouragement. You are all pretty amazing.

* * *

When Beatrice finally comes back downstairs, it's time for dinner and she sits down at the place Mrs Hughes indicates. She feels a flutter of nervousness coming off the Housekeeper - who had previously looked so strong and in charge. Mr Carson has not yet arrived and while the kitchen maids bring in dishes of steaming vegetables and potatoes, the other servants stare at Beatrice and it's making her more than a little uncomfortable.

She has been 'the new girl' so often, but not in a long while and she feels the familiar tightening in her chest. There are a few friendly faces between those simply filled with curiosity. A blonde Lady's Maid and the girl who had let her in earlier is bringing a stew.

One boy is openly leering and she stares him down quite effectively.

"So what's your name then?" The manservant on her other side asks. He is a handsome young-ish man, his dark hair slicked back with pommade, his hand in a soft leather glove. Possibly an injury from the war. He looks like a secretive man, one who knows the price and the worth of lies and manipulation.

"Beatrice Matthews. Yours?" It's not much information. Nothing he would be able to take advantage of.

"Thomas Barrow. Underbutler." He says it with a smirk. Bea doesn't respond, only nods slowly.

"What brings you to Downton then?" He coaxes.

"I needed a word with Mr Carson." Bea answers, telling him what he already knows and she is thankful the Butler comes in sight. He exchanges a look with Mrs Hughes and comes to stand between the table and his chair and he gestures towards Bea.

"This is Miss Matthews, you have all seen her today. She came here to personally tell me a dear friend has passed away. Now I suggest we get started on our evening meal, we all have our work to do. Anna, Lady Mary has asked for you to bring up something you had been mending earlier?"

Beatrice listens to Mr Carson getting on with his job as if her presence is nothing special.

"Just a friend, then, Mr Carson?" The honeyed voice of the Underbutler comes from her side and she shoots him an angry glance.

"There is not such thing as 'just a friend', Mr Barrow. Every friend we have is special." Mr Carson responds and it's not the right thing to say, not at all, for the Underbutler now looks like the cat who has gotten to the cream.

"You are quite tall, aren't you." He says to Bea before tucking into his stew.

She feels a flush spreading over her face as the rest of the staff stares at her again.

* * *

"Isn't it odd…" She says to him. He shifts, she snuggles up a little closer. They have forgone on the wine, needing something more substantial, something solid, instead of the fluidity of red liquid that dulls the senses - however slightly.

He kisses her forehead. "What is odd?" He asks, his voice as quiet as he can make it, it's dark tone caressing her skin.

"The whole staff thinks Beatrice is your daughter." She puts it plainly. This is no time for metaphors and euphemisms. They have a problem, it needs to be addressed.

"Do they?" His brow furrows.

"You know they do. Especially after Thomas said the girl is so tall."

He grunts in displeasure (so different from the grunts he utters when he is deep inside her, her breasts pressed against his chest, her legs wrapped around his waist, her nails digging in his back).

"She does look like you, you'll have to admit." She bites her lip. She is no longer certain it was her who taught him the ways to make a woman's body sing.

"That she does." His sigh is a storm and she holds on to him not to be blown away by it.

Silence hangs heavily between them. She is afraid to ask, but she needs to know. To not know is filling her with self-doubt. Her heart is beating high in her chest, her breathing comes laboured - but not the enjoyable panting of being rocked or touched. A dull panic is settling in.

"I have never even touched June… I mean, not more than her hand in the crook of my elbow or my hand at the small of her back." He says, as if he is recounting a memory.

Elsie doesn't want to accuse him of something she has no proof of, but the girl is so tall, her hair so dark, her eyes the exact colour of his and how is it possible for a young woman to look so like her lover when there is no connection between them?

"I doubt I was the only tall man June knew." He starts, his hand absently stroking Elsie's back through the cotton of her nightgown. "Nor the only one with dark, curly hair."

"That doesn't explain her eyes."

"No."

"I won't be angry with you… you know that, don't you?" She tries to reassure him.

"Honestly, Elsie. Truly. I have never been with June. Or anyone else for that matter. You must know it's only been you. You must remember how clumsy I was - or still am for that matter."

"You are not clumsy." She whispers.

She doesn't say she believes him.

* * *

Bea stares at the ceiling. There are cracks and dark spots and she counts the seconds between each breath she takes. She hears the shuffling of quick footsteps in the corridor, the opening and closing of the bathroom door. She has not attempted sleep yet.

She had expected, this morning - this morning already feeling so far in the past - she would be unable to sleep because her blood would be rushing through her veins with excitement and happiness. Instead she lays between cool sheets and under a blanket that weighs heavily upon her chest. She feels empty and sad.

She is back at square one. She has no leads that can help her find her father. She doesn't want to think her mother playing fast and loose with a myriad of men (tall men, broadchested men, good men, kind men - though now she doubts her father was any of those, perhaps her grandfather had been tall, maybe he had her eyes).

A tear escapes her and she brushes it off with an impatient hand.

She must remind herself she is not like her mother. Greg is the only man who has ever touched her, who has kissed her, who has managed to make her feel a coiling warmth in the pit of her stomach. She loves him and she longs for him now. She want him to help her see it doesn't make a difference. That she is still simply who she always was.

He steadies her normally, it's why she is so attracted to him. Because he is an honest man and because he doesn't hide his affection for her. She loves him because he finds it easy to love her, even when she made it difficult for him in the past with her reticence and her insecurity. She had not thought a man like him would want a wife who is an unknown, who does not know who she is.

But he had shrugged it off. Told her that it's her he wanted to marry, not her unavailable father. She had told him she wasn't sure she knew how to love and he had smiled and pulled her close. She had melted against him, feeling safe and cared for (a feeling so unfamiliar until then) and he had said she was a natural.

She had spoken about her fears; that she was destined to be a horrible mother - the example of her own cold, distant mother looming threateningly over her.

And even though he said she'd be fine, that feeling has not yet been washed away by his kisses and almost-too-intimate touches.

She turns to her side, pulling the covers close around her to recreate the feeling of being held. Today has been terrible, but she has seen what she wants from her future.

Before she drifts off into a fitful sleep, she sees the face of Mrs Hughes smiling softly at her.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Thank you everybody for being so nice about this story, I can never say enough how much I appreciate it. Now when you read this chapter, please keep in mind that sudden flames only burn shortly and that sometimes lost trust is returned as swiftly.

* * *

Bea's night was filled with bad dreams about beatings she received from the nuns and the harsh words her mother used to speak to her. The dreams didn't stop until the early hours of the morning, the dawn waking her much too soon to feel moderately rested.

She is slowly eating a piece of toast, her hand wrapped around her teacup, trying to get warm. Next to her Mrs Hughes pushes around her scrambled eggs, not actually picking any of them up. There are dark circles under her eyes. Mr Carson stares into his porridge until Mrs Hughes spoons in some extra honey. He smiles at her warmly and Bea's heart flutters until she sees Mrs Hughes not returning the smile.

She realises she has come between them with sudden clarity.

Her coming here has been a mistake of epic proportions. She has not found what she was looking for and she has disrupted the lives of a devoted, loving couple. She sighs deeply, the crumbs on her plate move feebly.

"Miss Matthews," The Butler addresses her and she looks up, slightly startled. "I'd like to see you in my pantry after breakfast if it's not too inconvenient for you."

She is surprised at how calm and even her voice sounds when she answers she'll be joining him soon.

Apparently Mrs Hughes doesn't need an invitation to follow the Butler and it looks like she doesn't much care what anyone thinks as she stalks after him, her shoulders tight. Bea finds nobody even looks up, they all get on with their assigned tasks and hastily empty their teacups, brushing crumbs off their clothes.

Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes going off together doesn't strike anyone as strange.

* * *

She doesn't sit, but stands by the door and watches Charles and Beatrice intently. Charles words ring in her ear, his promises of not being the girls' father repeating time after time and in the early light of morning she finds their eyes are not the same colour. His seem deeper (which could be her love for him clouding her judgment), hers brighter. His hair is only the same colour as Bea's because of the pommade that keeps his curls in check.

Remains only that Bea is taller than most girls. She is a little broader than usual. But Charles said that he didn't think he was the only tall man of June's acquaintance. He is not prone to lying in general and so far he's hardly ever kept anything from him. If anything it is her who keeps things from him (she shudders when she thinks of Anna's horrible ordeal).

"I… appreciate how difficult yesterday must have been for you." Charles says and Beatrice worries her lip, nods slowly. "And I wish to help you, if I may. Perhaps I do see someone else in your photographs, or recognise a name in her diary that might prompt a memory."

Beatrice nods again. "I have my things upstairs. I know you have work to do and I don't know if you've time, but I would very much appreciate your help, Mr Carson. It's very kind of you to offer."

"I could spare half an hour or so now, if you'd get your things."

Beatrice smiles - the girl is beautiful and more so when she smiles, it lights up her face, her eyes sparkle - and quickly leaves the room.

Elsie strides over to Charles, grabbing his arm. "Her eyes are not at all the same as yours…" She tells him.

"I am not her father, Elsie. I really am not. You must remember that when I came to you, you had to teach me everything? You must recall that mere touches made me shiver and that I had never felt a girl's skin under my hands."

She looks at her feet, her and still digging into his arm, unable to let go. "You were on the stage." She whispers.

"Not as an actor, Elsie. And you of all people should know I am a terrible liar."

"That is true."

She looks up at him and they both laugh at that last statement.

"So… You're not…" She asks quietly, one last time, to be quite certain.

"No. No, I'm not."

"Oh, thank God…" Her words tumble from her lips and she lets herself fall against Charles, a tear or two staining his pristine livery.

* * *

When she returns with her mother's diary and the publicity that had once adorned the walls of theatres and dancehalls, things are not as dire as she thought at breakfast.

She had expected to be shouted at and intimidated when she was called into Mr Carson's pantry at breakfast, but instead he had offered her his help. Mrs Hughes had looked pale and unhappy, but when she returned with her mother's belongings, there was more colour in her cheeks and the room no longer filled with an icy atmosphere.

Mr Carson opens up an old ledger, picks up a pencil and starts researching right away, leafing through posters, writing down names and dates, asking for cross references in her mother's diary. He makes lists and crosses out things after asking her when her birthday is.

He works relentlessly, half an hour turning into an hour, an hour into two. Mrs Hughes brings them a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits, her hand comes to rest on Mr Carson's shoulder for a few moments. Bea expects that when if they had been alone, Mrs Hughes would have kissed Mr Carson on the top of his head and that she would tell him not to work too hard, not to strain his eyes.

"I am very sorry, Mr Carson." She says, breaking the silence that hangs comfortably between them.

"For what, Miss Matthews?" The Butler looks up from his ledger.

"For disrupting your life like this. I doubt you asked for someone to come in, claiming to be your child." She looks at him. Now she's slept on it, he doesn't look as much like her as she initially thought. Greg had said so, but she didn't want to listen. She had liked the idea of someone who made her mother happy to be the one who had fathered her. She wanted it to be someone she would be able to trust and who maybe in time would learn to love her.

"Not something I had expected, but there is no need to apologise, Miss Matthews."

"Wouldn't you call me Beatrice, Mr Carson?"

"I couldn't possibly." He answers with a smile.

"If you had known me as a child you would have called me Beatrice." She tries to reason.

He smiles at her. "Knowing myself, the man I was back in those day, I would have come up with all sorts of names for you." He stares into the distance. "Some of the others in the troupe we had little ones. I'd call them 'peanut' and such. I'd tell them stories when their parents were doing their acts and I'd buy them sweets."

He looks forlorn. Bea knows Mr Carson is happy with his chosen profession. He is - as she learnt while searching for him - well-respected and well-known. It's obvious to her Mr Carson runs a tight ship, Mrs Hughes more than simply his second in command, both of them governing parts of the household, working together seamlessly.

"I was never small and slight, though. Peanut would not have suited me." She muses out loud, turning a page of her mother's diary.

"I may have come up with something else. Bessie maybe." He turns back to his ledger, crosses out another name. He mumbles, but Bea can still make out the words.

"Elsie would have called you 'pet'."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Things are better for everyone after that last chapter, but will they remain that way? Thank you everyone for being so awesome about this fic. Really, it is you guys who rock though! Thank you all for reading! WARNING: SMUT AHEAD

* * *

"Have you found anything to help Miss Matthews?" Elsie asks that night, her wineglass heavy in her hand.

"Not much. Well, I've found she isn't very good at mathematics."

Elsie quirks a questioning eyebrow. Charles blushes. "Oh!" Elsie suddenly understands. "Oh dear."

Charles looks embarrassed. "I was no longer at that particular theatre when… you know."

"I do." She smiles at him, takes a sip of her wine. "How did she manage to get _that_ wrong?" She wonders out loud.

"I've not asked." Charles picks up a cheese biscuit. He chews thoughtfully. "You know, June sent her to several schools, mostly run by nuns, none of whom were very loving it seems from the stories Beatrice has told me today and from the entries in the diary. June did care about her daughter, but I don't think she knew how to show it."

He takes another sip and Elsie listens attentively, not interrupting. "I remember that she was a workhouse child, or at least that she had grown up in a workhouse and she was proud of how she had struggled to make something of herself. She was very lively and always looked to me like she was a rather happy person, all in all. Not the person Beatrice made her out to be. I think I know why…" He pauses. "There was an entry in her diary that made me very uneasy. I think Beatrice disregarded it because she had her dates mixed up, but…" He sighs, pain evident in his face.

"What did it say?" Elsie scoots closer, chair legs scrape over the tiles and she puts down her glass to readjust her skirt. She puts her hand on his leg. "You don't have to tell me of course. I know it's private."

She can see him thinking and deciding, before he starts to speak. "I don't recall the exact wording. Something about physical pain and utter shame. That trying to push away memories was impossible when she was being reminded of it permanently. She wrote about worries and about a lack of money, about losing her friends and that she didn't know what to do."

"Well." Elsie says. "That does explain it all, doesn't it."

"Yes. I thought so. But I don't know if I should tell her."

"I doubt she'll ever find her father now." Elsie feels it's the least the girl deserves for her perseverance and her strength.

"She is so kind-hearted, but she is not weak. Though of course I've only known her for less than a day." Charles adds as an afterthought.

Elsie looks up sharply. Has it only been a day since she cut into a madeira cake to share with the rest of the staff? Only a day since she almost started singing 'For he's a jolly good fellow' when there was a knock on the door? Only a day since doubts settled so sharply and were laid to rest again?

"Weak she is definitely not." She agrees with him.

"You like her." She states. She doesn't mind, not much, just a bit, a needling feeling that prickles her neck now and then.

"She reminds me of someone. She is so practical and plain-spoken and she goes after what she wants and she is so curious." He looks at her and Elsie's breath hitches. She sucks in her bottom lip and bites it, hard.

"You know she does that too?" He asks, leaning over to touch her lips with his thumb.

"Does she now…" She softly kisses the pads of his fingers.

"I think you'd like her too." He offers and she finds he is almost shy.

"I think you're right. She is very upstanding, isn't she? She looks like she always knows what to do and when and how. Yes… she reminds me of someone I know too." And she isn't speaking of the girl's height or the colour of her eyes or her dark hair.

They sit together quietly, neither saying what's on the tips of their tongues, unable to get the words out. They cannot change the past now, even if they wanted to. It's Elsie who breaks the silence by squeezing Charles' thigh and getting up from her chair.

"Come…" She says, putting the half empty glasses on the tray with the plate of biscuits.

"Where are we going?" He asks.

"Upstairs. You can show me how clumsy you are…"

* * *

Mr Carson eventually leaves to serve lunch to the family and Mrs Hughes comes in to tidy his pantry. She moves with such ease, knowing exactly where everything goes and she only asks Bea if she is alright, doesn't pry. Perhaps she knows Mr Carson - Bea almost thought 'her husband' - will tell her all she needs to know tonight when they are alone. Bea is to catch the 16.54 from Ripon and she'll be falling into the waiting arms of her fiance who had been very kind and sweet to her while they briefly telephoned. She had not told him much, except to meet her at the station and that she would like to have dinner somewhere.

She isn't quite ready to go home. Her rooms are bound to be chilly and musty, her thoughts will swirl and she will be laying awake, wondering what to do next. She knows her nightmares will return. She'd rather not sleep if she has to endure more blurry beatings and muffled shouts.

Mrs Hughes takes her into the Servants' Hall, indicates she should sit. It's not as full of people as dinner or breakfast had been. Thomas Barrow is missing and it changes the atmosphere completely. Mrs Bates pulls her into a conversation and Bea finds she chats comfortably with the Lady's Maid, who is roughly the same age.

She is enjoying herself. Sitting here, tucking into her bread and cheese, it's nothing like it had once been in school. She is not being made to prove herself, when she laughs there is not the back of a hand on her cheek. Mrs Hughes pours her a second glass of milk as if it means nothing to have seconds.

If she'd had known this feeling before, she would have identified it as belonging, the obvious care and warmth as being with family.

* * *

He has her out of her dress, her corset, her shift in record time, his coat and shirt and trousers pooling on the floor. They kiss frantically, pushing up against each other, their lips plump and hot. She pulls away long enough get rid of her shift and presses herself against his naked skin. His arms wrap around her tight, he kisses a path from his cheek to her neck, tickling and driving her slightly crazy. His faint stubble is scratching her chin and cheek, his hand is suddenly on her bum, his erection poking her insistently. They turn, stagger, fall on the bed that protests loudly and they still for just a second until they are certain no-one has awoken.

They do this (she doesn't name it, by naming it she would have to address it and she doesn't want to, she doesn't want to admit she is a hypocrite - telling her girls never to let a man touch them unless they are married (and look how well that turned out for Anna, her Anna, her girl - she swallows hard, tries not to dwell on it, what's done is done, she is here with Charles, who is kind and would never do such a thing) in his room, always, figuring men sleep deeper, thinking that they have less of a chance of being caught in his bed.

He lets her fall back on his bed and runs his hands up her shins, cupping her knees and then lets his fingertips dance over the soft skin of her inner thighs. She lets her legs fall apart, allowing him to brush against the damp cotton of her knickers. She puts her hands on his sides, trying to pull him towards her - she wants to kiss him so badly, to have him closer to her.

She needs him to hold her, to be close. She doesn't need the lengthy foreplay he enjoys (alright, she usually enjoys it too), she just wants to be sure of him again, of his love, of what they have together. He seems to understand as he hooks his fingers under the elastic of her knickers and slides them down and then deftly touches her between her folds before hovering over her.

He doesn't enter her yet, but kisses her cheeks, her mouth and looks into her eyes. He softly strokes her cheek and smiles and she smiles back, nodding almost imperceptibly.

"I love you…" She murmurs and he plunges in before responding in kind. "I love you too… God, I love you, Elsie…"

They strike up a frantic rhythm and she clings to him, tears falling off her cheeks on his pillow and he massages her breast firmly, much firmer than he normally would, but nothing is the same as it once was. Elsie's thoughts flit from Anna's ordeal to Beatrice who was in a room on the other side of the dividing doors yesterday and neither girl is hers and Bea is not Charles' and Elsie arches her back, catching his thrusts, wanting him to chase the painful thoughts away.

More tears follow as she cannot focus on him, on the way he expertly touches her, instead thinking back on how she was young once - or perhaps not young, but young enough and how they had decided that such a life was not for them and how she had been wrong, god how wrong she had been. She reaches up to him, taking his cheeks between her hands, kissing him again and again, almost aggressively. He lets her, simply adjusting the tempo of his thrusts before gathering her up in his arms, pulling her up, her legs wrapping around his waist until they are tangled in an embrace, unable to get any closer.

"I love you…" She says again, her crying spilling over into her voice.

"I know…" He holds her, rocks them gently, not for friction, not to stimulate them, but to comfort in the only way he can right in that moment. "I love you too. So very much. I love you, my Elsie…"

"We made a mistake." She mutters into the softness of his neck. "We could have had this, we could have had…" Her crying increases with each words, she is flooding his shoulder with tears. He strokes her hair as it's come undone, falling down her back and it's so comforting, this tender care that she knows is all for her, always.

"Elsie… Elsie, won't you look at me?" His words sound soft in her ear.

She looks at him, the dim light of the bedside lamp reflecting in his eyes. She manages a soft smile. "What is it, my love?"

"Elsie Hughes… we cannot change the past, but we can change the future… please do me the honour of becoming my wife, so we can make a start together?"


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** Warning: time lapses

* * *

"There really isn't a reason why we should wait, is there." She stirs her tea calmly even if her heart is racing. "I mean, Mr Carson couldn't figure out much from my mother's diary either and to put my life on hold for someone who doesn't truly matter, who likely doesn't exist in the sense of a _true father_…" The sentence ends unspoken.

"You are quite right, my dear. If you like we could go to the Registry Office and get an appointment after you've finished your tea." He smiles and she is happy to have found someone so steady and honest. He doesn't sugarcoat the truth, but he is just _there_.

"We could. I mean, we don't know very many people, do we. We'd just go in and maybe find some witnesses. I think maybe they even provide witnesses for a small fee." She sips her tea. "Then all we need is a place to live and maybe a honeymoon. Or the other way around."

"Ever practical." Greg laughs and gestures to the waiter. He pulls out his wallet. "How about we'll go for a bit of a walk and we decide a few things? You know I always think easier when I am out in the fresh air."

"Not very fresh or clean here in the city, darling."

The endearment falls from her lips with sudden ease. She is positive she's never said it before and Greg looks up in surprise. It seems like he enjoys it. Which is good: she enjoyed saying it.

"These two days in the country have changed you." He hands the waiter the money they owe and helps Bea up from her chair, helps her in her coat, makes sure she is alright before taking her arm.

"Yes." She says when they are outside, traffic bustling by: the sound of motorcars and omnibuses, a few policemen on horses. Butcher's boys with bicycles and nannies pushing prams while talking to older children.

"Yes?" Greg asks, navigating the street, waiting for the most opportune moment to cross.

"Yes, those two days have changed me. You know most of what's happened, but I think now the dust has settled somewhat, I feel very calm. You know, I really don't _need_ a father. I never had one before and I am good enough on my own." They quickly move to the other side of the street and she continues: "Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes made it so easy for me to feel included. When it was time for lunch, some of the other servants were talking to me as if I mattered, as if I had been part of their club forever." She squeezes Greg's arm.

"You make me feel included. Like I matter. And that is all I need. We will make a family ourselves."

She blushes fiercely when she catches the double entendre of her words. Greg is grinning.

"That's not what I meant!" She cries out.

"Hmm. I bet it isn't." He chuckles and scans the area, but the park is very quiet and he pulls her into a firm embrace, kissing her deeply. When he lets her go, she is breathless and slightly dizzy.

"Alright… maybe I did mean it like that…" She concedes.

* * *

"There's a letter from Beatrice." She says when he comes into her parlor after serving tea to the family upstairs.

"A letter?"

"Very nice. She is thanking you especially for your help. I think she was rather taken with you." She watches him move through the room. "Not that I blame her."

"You don't?"

"After all I am rather taken with you too." She smiles and he smiles back. Her heart flutters for a moment.

Perhaps not everything has been resolved completely, but their lives are forever linked now and she awaits his half day, when he gets that chance to purchase a much coveted piece of jewelry. He had worried about his lack of a ring after they had celebrated his proposal (and her acceptance) in rather a vigorous, but sweet way.

"Why Mrs Hughes, more risque with every year that passes." He remarks and sits down heavily.

"Are you alright?" She asks, immediately worried. They are not as young as they once were. They need more rest and if they spent half the night wrapped up in each other's arms, it's bound to catch up with them during the day. Apparently more with him, than with her.

"Yes. You'd just think the young ladies would have learnt to put aside their differences by now."

"Were they hat bad?"

"I don't understand why they have to be at each other's throats all the time. Lady Mary has lost her husband!" He huffs.

"Lady Edith has lost the man she loved." And more, Elsie adds silently.

"Yes. Well. I don't understand it at all. When Beatrice was here, she didn't fight with Anna. They got along very well."

Elsie laughs out loud. "It's hardly the same. They had only met the afternoon before. They are not sisters."

Charles looks up. He coughs, slightly embarrassed. "Well, they're two young women and it just struck me." He sounds gruff and she is suddenly sobered by his tone. She starts to speak, her hand grasping his over the table, careful of the teacups, the scalding heat of the pot.

Words pour from Elsie's mouth before she can actually think of them, a rolling river, impossible to be contained. "I remember how you escorted Daisy towards William that dreadful day we knew we would lose him and I remember your fingers curling around my hand that night Lady Sybil died. I remember your lessons with Alfred and how you've broken up fights, how you've encouraged your lads and a maid or two of mine and I want you to know..." Tears are in her eyes, her voice is cracked around the edges. "I think you would have been a very good father, Charles. I think you would have made certain everyone felt loved and special."

She doesn't want to bring it up again, not her painful, aching regret of things in a past they cannot change, but he must know that she sees more in him than just a Butler, just a man. He has qualities beyond his tailcoat and his comprehension of entails.

His grip tightens and he wets his lips with the tip of his tongue, waiting to speak until she has composed herself again.

"Thank you."

She worries her lip and he shakes his head, gets up from his chair, pulls her up by her hand, never once letting go and she is in his embrace, safe and sound, cared for.

Loved.

"I think we should get married soon." He mumbles into her hair and she agrees.

The sooner the better.

* * *

"Well, Mss Matthews, that was the last of it."

"Indeed, sir." Beatrice places the thick folder on her employer's desk.

"Ready to go off to the publisher."

"Yes, sir." She tidies the desk with nimble movements.

"I'll miss you, you know."

"Would you, sir?" Their conversation never flows, there is always the distinct feeling of being a _hired help_.

"Hmm." He picks up his coffee cup and slurps. Bea is very glad Gregory has not inherited that particular trait from his father. "But I suppose Gregory will bring you back now and then." He spoons in another heaving spoonful of sugar and stirs vigorously. "I hear you are setting up house together."

"I accepted his proposal a while ago." She says quietly.

"Of course you did, girl. Of course. Had Gregory here, pacing up and down my study for fifteen minutes before he came out with it. Never seen the boy in such a state. Good thing he decided not to be a seafaring man, would not have suited his temperament at all."

Beatrice tries to hide her smile.

"I doubt his brother will be able to join the wedding party. But I'd like to meet your parents, Miss Matthews. I assume you will want to marry soon now you are relieved of your duty to me?" He chucks back his sweet - and undoubtedly cold - coffee.

Beatrice nods, her brow furrowed. "My parents are no longer living, sir." She declines his offer of sorts.

"Then who the blazes were you visiting last week? No, Miss Matthews, I already knew you were not quite of our circle, there is no need for you to be ashamed of your kin. It's all you have in the end. You bring them here, we'll have a dinner."

All Beatrice feels is a sense of dread and her heart beating painfully against her breastbone, while Gregory's father natters on about family, tradition and the wedding breakfast.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Well… this is going to be different… I hope you guys like it and don't feel cheated on. I promise to make it up to you. At least it's about 3k. There's something to be said for that. Plus the fact that it's ¾ smut. Right?

* * *

Their talk with Lord and Lady Grantham had gone well, the telling of the staff had gone well (none of them were very surprised at their news, there was a bit of smirking, but nothing she minded too much), the busride to the city had gone well and now they are sitting side by side in the waiting room of the Registry Office. There are more couples waiting, most of them young, some of them with obvious reasons for wanting to get hitched as quickly as possible. There are muffled, angry words and hissed retorts she cannot quite make out. Doesn't want to anyhow.

It's not what she had once thought her wedding would be, but it's good enough. She doesn't need a white dress and a gathering of people she knows. She just wants Charles and to say those words that will make them irrevocably entangled forever. If she were to die tomorrow, her headstone would say: 'Elsie Carson, beloved wife of Charles Carson'.

Which is oddly comforting. Even if she's not felt another lump (and she feels for one daily - she will forever be terrified of finding one and even more of being too late), even if he is as strong as an ox. They are both vastly approaching their autumn years, but they are not _old_ as such.

A girl on the other side of the room is crying, her hand on her protruding belly. 'Poor thing', she thinks. To have to be in that position, to not know if your man marries you out of love or out of duty. At least Elsie knows her husband will be hers, that they will be bound by endless depth of feeling.

"Mr Carson and Miss Hughes?" A clerk looks around the doorway, calling them in. It's been a very long time since she was called 'Miss Hughes' and it fills her with a nervousness she had not felt before. They stand and move swiftly after the clerk. The waiting room erupts into whispered conversation just before the door closes behind them and Elsie smiles to herself and grabs Charles' hand.

She is holding Charles' hand hard and he is squeezing back, smiling down on her. She knows he has the ring in his pocket (he has it knotted to his handkerchief, he thinks she doesn't know, but she knows, she always knows everything) and that they won't be able to slip it on her finger, that there won't be a kiss until they leave the room - it's all clean, efficient and purely procedural.

So they hand over their documents and the Registrar performs the ceremony (the man is not as bored as he might have been, she has to give him some credit for that).

Ten minutes is all it takes to turn her complimentary title of Mrs into a reality.

* * *

"You know what he's like! He'll have forgotten all about this dinner within a week, sweetheart." Greg is trying to sound reasonable, but she doesn't care.

"That doesn't change the fact that I don't have ACTUAL LIVING PARENTS, Greg! And I am in no position to conjure any up. And I don't want to either! I just… Why does he want to have a dinner anyway? He never comes out of his study! Even when his friends call on him he receives them there! His valet brings in trays every single day!" She is yelling now. She is so frustrated and her temper has gotten the better of her. She is warm and she pulls at the sleeves of her cardigan, shrugs out of it, flings it over the back of her seat.

Her landlady has gone out, the others in the house are not going to rat on her. She hopes, but she can'tbe sure now they are shouting at each other and walls are much too thing. Greg's voice will carry and there is asign on the front door: No Irish. No blacks.. No male visitors allowed.

She is glad when Greg's voice drops to its usual volume.

"How am I supposed to know why he wants to have dinner with your dead folks? It's not like I understand him." Greg points it out as if it's common knowledge.

"Well, I am not asking Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes to pretend they are my parents. I'll gladly invite them to the dinner, but I'll not introduce them as such and that's that." She plonks down on the bed in the corner. She feels flushed and still a bit agitated, even though it's good to have come to a conclusion. She is happy with it. Honesty is always best.

"Your choice, Bea. Your choice. I'll be there to hold your hand, no matter what." He gets up from his chair and walks over, looking slightly unsteady.

"What's the matter?" She asks.

"I think you… you look very pretty and I think I had better go…" He sounds a bit out of breath.

"Why should you go? Mrs Lowry won't be back until after teatime at least.

"You look very pretty. And I don't want to take advantage of the situation."

Apparently Greg prefers the honest approach too. Beatrice bites her lip and looks up from under her lashes, then reaches out to take his wrist in hand and she pulls, quickly. He stumbles and is next to her on the bed, the frame creaking under the suddenly added weight. She leans towards him and captures his lips with hers.

They kiss, softly at first, but soon more urgently. His hand runs up her side, sliding behind her back and she allows him to push her back against the mattress. She opens her mouth to his, their tongues instantly curling around each other, her arms snaking around him, pulling him closer.

"Nothing untoward, mind you…" She manages to say in between pants and he nods. He starts pulling at her skirt, pulling up the hem and she doesn't understand how his hand can suddenly be on the naked skin of her thigh, just above her stockings and she presses against him, pulling his shirt from his trousers, trying to find his skin under his vest and when she finds it, it's impossibly soft and warm and slightly sweaty from their exertions.

His hand wanders from the outside to the inside of her thigh and as of their own accord, her legs fall open and she has to bite back a sound that starts to erupt from her mouth as his fingers brush over her knickers, there where they are starting to gather moisture and she starts to yank at his shirt, wants it off him. When it doesn't work, she starts on the buttons of her blouse and manages to get that off while he kisses her neck, sending a current of want down her spine.

Greg is getting rid of his shoes by toeing them off and he rolls off her for the merest moment to undo his trousers and to get those off as well as his socks Their clothes are becoming a small mountain behind the bed and Bea finds she doesn't care, that she doesn't mind her skirt and blouse will be creased and she is glad she had locked the door behind them (no-one will see the pile of clothing, their nakedness) and then Greg is back hovering over her in his underwear only and she is in hers, her slip covering most of her still and she can see the muscles in his arms flexing, she hears the sounds of his laboured breathing and she lunges for him.

They roll back and forth on the small bed, the covers rumpling under them and they kiss again, frantically and they both speak of their love, their want and how they have waited so long, but they don't have to, they don't, they can wait if they want to (they don't), how they've longed to, how this is all wrong, how they can't…

But it's all kissed away before they know it and Greg must know more than Bea does (he's been in the Army, he has seen war, she has no illusions about him, has simply asked him to see a doctor and she had picked him up there a few weeks before), because he is making her feel absolutely wonderful.

He moves his hand up her slip, helps her out of it and kisses the slope of her belly and the tops of her breasts as they spill from her brassiere. He licks through the fabric, her nipples tightening in an unfamiliar, but pleasurable way and she lets her hands tangle in his hair, pulling him up to her face, kissing him, again and again.

She doesn't understand what's going on, not entirely, but she is happy to let him take the lead for once and he smiles at her, asks her if she is certain, if she really knows what she is doing, what she is about to give away and she smiles back, brilliantly and they embrace tightly, his weight on top of her and it's a wonderful feeling. Something she has never experienced before. This closeness, this want that is quickly turning into a need and she helps him with the hooks and eyes of her bra and he takes off his shirt and they are almost naked, only one barrier between them.

Her knickers are riding up and she feels how there is a wetness pooling between her legs now and she moans as Greg's hand makes a way from her breast to her belly button and then down, slipping under the elastic of her underwear. He runs his fingers through the coarse curls there and she lets him part her, his fingers gently probing at her and he gasps in delight.

"Only if you are sure…" He says, but she can see him trembling and Bea feels almost powerful that it's her who makes him feel this way.

"Yes." She says, her voice clear in the otherwise silent room and he pulls her knickers down as well as his shorts and she is a bit taken aback by what she sees springing free. She doesn't understand how it's supposed to fit and he notices, telling her it will be alright, that he'll be careful, that he'll be as gentle as possible.

He touches her with nimble fingers, running them over places she's never felt herself and then he finds a spot that has her keening and shuddering. He smiles down at her and positions himself between her knees, lowering himself to lay on top of her. He pulls her knees to the side and then up and she can feel the tip of… well, _it_ at her sex and he pushes softly and he enters bit by bit after running it through the moisture that is somehow running from her.

It doesn't hurt, not much. If anything, it's uncomfortable and especially new. He is breathing so hard and his eyes are shut tight. She grabs hold of his shoulders, knowing he is by no means fully sheathed in her and she rocks back slightly, Greg groans.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" She says, startled and a bit afraid she has hurt him now.

"No. No, don't say sorry… It just… It feels good, Bea. You feel so good and I love you so much…" And then he plunges further inside and she knows he cannot get any closer and it's somehow perfect in it's peculiar way. He stills, allowing her to get used to the feeling of being stretched to the limit.

"I love you." He says again. "We'll get married soon. I can't wait…" He adds and Bea can only hum and then they are back to what they were doing, gently rocking and touching.

* * *

"Alone at last." He says and she sits down on the bed (while they were away, Mr Branson and Mr Molesley broke through the wall that divided their bedrooms, Anna and Miss Baxter have painted it, the smell is still pungent in the room even though the windows are open. Their new bed - new to them anyway - has been expertly made; Elsie recognises the corners pulled tight as being done by her favourite charge) before answering.

"It's rather strange being here, with all of them knowing what we'll be up to." She worries her lip and is a bit annoyed that he is chuckling.

"I doubt they will know what we'll be doing. I think they're expecting us to cuddle and maybe throw in a peck or two for good measure."

He kneels before her, his knee clicks and Elsie has trouble biting back her chortle.

"And isn't that what we'll be doing?" She asks. The taste of Beryl's excellent cake lingers in the back of her mouth, the song that was sung towards them still rings in her ears.

"Perhaps. Afterwards." Charles is looking positively leery and it makes Elsie think of the special underwear she purchased for today and how she hopes he will be pleased.

"I see. You have other things in mind then, Mr Carson?"

"I have a fair few things in mind, Mrs Carson, I hope I'll not shock you." His voice is smooth and she watches him fumble with his handkerchief, the ring falling into his palm. "But first things first. Won't you please give me your hand?"

She extends her hand, her breath hitching.

"I, Charles Carson, take you, Elsie Hughes, to be my wife." He winks before continuing. "To have an to hold, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health," He looks at her pointedly and her hand flies up to her breast, the offending one and she nods solemnly. "To love and to cherish, till death us do part."

He slides the ring onto her finger and stands up, kissing her deeply, pushing her back against the mattress.

"I, Elsie Carson," She manages between kissing, between toeing off her shoes and helping him with his jacket. "Take you, Charles Carson, to be my husband." The word falls pleasantly from her tongue while she unbuttons his shirt and he fumbles with hers. "To have and to hold, for better for worse…" He kisses a path from her cheek to her neck and she tilts her head so he'll have better access. "For richer or poorer, in sickness and in health," She takes his hand and places it upon her breast, still covered by the new brassiere. "To love and to cherish, till death do us part."

He returns his attentions to her mouth, letting his hands get on with the task of undressing her. They are practiced, having taken off each other's clothes for years now and he is indeed happily surprised to find such tantalising underthings covering his bride's modesty.

"Gods, Elsie… so beautiful… forever so beautiful…" He says, his hands flying over the bare skin of her upper arms and shoulders, her collarbones, the top of her breastbone and her breasts as they spill over the cups of her bra. He is already breathing heavily and she still has to get out of her skirt and she rolls him over, the bed easily accommodating such luxurious moves. She gets on her knees, pulling the hook from the eye, letting her skirt drop, pooling around her knees and she is pleased by his reaction, the gasp and groan.

She manoeuvres out of it, gets off the bed, picks up the skirt to hang it over the back of a chair and she bends a bit more than necessary, knowing how the straps of her suspenders will mark her bottom.

Suddenly he is behind her, palming her bum, kissing her neck, his one hand traveling around her waist and upward to cup her breast and she lets herself fall back against him, grinding against his groin. She wants him so badly, she doesn't know how they'll ever be quiet now, not in the light of day - it's not quite teatime yet - not now it's quite alright for them to indulge in their love, in the lust and desire they feel for each other.

"I love you…" He whispers in her ear and it tingles down her spine, making her turn in his arms and she pushes him back to the bed, lets him fall down and she straddles him, her core against his (they are both so ready, but she wants to wait, to make this last as long as possible, dinner won't be served until eight at least), her wetness soaking the frilly knickers she is wearing and his hands tenderly run up her ribcage, behind her back, undoing her bra and she is now nude from the waist up, his hands firmly massaging her breasts.

Her stockings are sheer and silky, and she wonders if she can get rid of her knickers without having to deal with the bothersome suspenders, but Charles is ahead of her (well, he would be) and lifts her from his lap and she stumbles, falling on the bed, her belly deep in the covers, her bottom up high and he peels the moist cotton from her bum, kissing the back of her thighs, the soft crease where they meet her buttocks and she can feel his finger outlining her folds and between, and then his tongue joining her fingers and she moans loudly, the sound echoing against the walls.

"Els?" His voice is rough and she answers by wiggling her bum. "I can't… I need… to… please… would you…"

She loves how there are still things he is shy about. That they have been loving each other completely for the past few decades and that he still asks her permission to enter her whilst he cannot look her in the eye.

"Oh please, yes…" She says and she looks back from her position and finds he is already on his knees behind her. She plants her knees wider apart and braces for the impact she's been craving and he fills her in one fell swoop. They both cry out and she pushes herself up on her elbows first, her hands next and one of his hands is in her hair as it's coming down and they strike up a furious rhythm, her breasts swinging until he captures one, then both in his other hand, pulling her up even more and Elsie cannot think of anything but her her new ring fits her perfectly, how her husband fills her perfectly, how her life is so close to being perfect and she couldn't care less that anyone can hear them:

for they are finally married now.

* * *

**A/N2: **Dedicated to everyone who celebrates their birthday this week, including: nimblewordplay, batwings79 and akachankami


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** Elsie receives a letter, Bea on the other hand receives something… else.

* * *

"Have you seen Char… Mr Carson, Anna?" Elsie asks, hardly looking up from the letter in her hand.

"He's upstairs, Lord Grantham wanted a word." Anna smiles and Elsie blushes.

"It takes a bit of getting used to." Elsie apologises and Anna nods, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"I don't expect you to call him Mr Carson in the privacy of your rooms, Mrs Carson." Her new name sounds unfamiliar, but fills her with happiness. She nods.

"Will you tell him I would like to see him before luncheon? I'll be in my parlour. I don't know how it's possible we have gotten three different invoices for the last coal delivery, but it does need a good going over."

Lies. She will be in her parlour alright, but she will contemplating her letter and she'll be thinking of Charles and how he had woken her this morning. She can still feel his hand on her breast, his lips on the back of her neck. How he slipped inside her so easily and if she was blushing before, it's nothing to the heat that rises to her cheeks now. Thankfully Anna has already turned around.

Elsie hurries to her parlour, closing the door carefully. She stands before the open window - open ajar, it won't go any further - and breathes in the cool air. She needs to settle down. She has been with Charles countless times before, the only difference is that people _know_ now (if they didn't before). The letter rustles in the draft. Elsie rereads it yet again.

Beatrice has asked if Charles and Elsie will meet Greg. They are invited to a dinner Greg's father is hosting. Very small: only the two betrothed and his father and then Charles and Elsie.

Elsie can read between the lines it's not so much a request as it is a plea.

The weeks have flown by since Beatrice Matthews came into her life and so much has changed, she can hardly grasp it. She's married Charles, she is letting go more of the walls she has put up between herself and Anna. She writes Beatrice candidly, answering questions, giving advice. And now she is being asked to join a dinner that will celebrate a wedding she would not have dreamt of attending two months ago, knowing neither bride nor groom.

She doesn't know the groom now, but she knows of him. Bea is no giddy schoolgirl; her descriptions of Greg are honest and intense. Bea writes of his calm demeanor, his sense of humour, his care. According to the girl, Greg Wilmot* is tall and fair haired, with sparkling blue eyes. Elsie had laughed a bit when she read about the boy's eyes, feeling the description was directly out of a penny dreadful. But Bea also tells of how careful he is with money and how he makes her feel safe and secure and how he somehow makes her feel lighter and free.

Glorious terms. Elsie thinks it looks like Beatrice Matthews has found herself a man who is ridiculously like Charles Carson.

They have been looking for a place 'to set up home' and Elsie's heart had beaten a fair few times out of rhythm. She had wondered if she should have warned the girl about the temptation that is a man who loves you, a man who wakens desires in you that you never held possible. But she hadn't, hoping Beatrice was clever enough not to give herself before time. Elsie had not wanted to overstep the fragile boundaries of her relationship with the girl.

The door opens and her own handsome, tall, calm husband enters the room, smiling happily.

"Anna says you called for me?" He sounds like he is addressing Lady Grantham and Elsie chortles.

"I did indeed, Mr Carson."

"Did you indeed, Mrs Carson." He teases.

"We've a letter from Bea." She announces and he sits down.

"Anything special? Well, must be, if you cannot wait to share it until tonight."

"She wants us to meet Gregory. We've been invited to have dinner with him and Beatrice." She pauses briefly. "And his father."

"Why would Gregory's father want to meet us?" He asks, being as reasonable as ever.

"I don't think he does. I think Beatrice would like to have us with her because she is not very confident about this dinner party."

"And us being there would help?" He sounds a bit gruff, but Elsie sees how his chest puffs up with pride that tiny bit. She wonders for a second how she could possibly love this man any more than she does in that very moment.

"I think so." She doesn't say that she is frankly dying to meet Gregory.

"Do you think we could? I mean… the both of us away at the same time, for two half days…" She can see him calculating.

"Perhaps Mr Barrow can manage in our absence, with Mr Bates and Anna to support him."

"Hmm…"

And that's when she knows she'll be dining in the city and suddenly she worries about an appropriate dress. She must write to Beatrice immediately and ask Anna for advice.

* * *

"We must really stop doing this." She says, but doesn't move.

"Must we?"

"It's only a question of time before one of the servants finds us." She reasons.

"They are never up here this time of day." He says, his fingertips tracing the inside of her wrist, going up to the inside her her elbow.

"How do you know?" She asks.

"I work from home, dearest." He kisses her temple, her cheek, rolls her back against the pillows. He touches her upper arm and shoulder with featherlight fingers. His lips tenderly nip at her skin, his tongue darts out to trace her nipple as it comes alive under his ministrations and she presses against him wantonly.

"We'll be married soon…" She manages to say.

"Not soon enough…" He replies, his palm on her other breast, squeezing softly.

"We've still to decide where we'll live." She wants to concentrate on the matter on hand, but it's hard when his hand runs down her belly to part her legs and starts to pleasure her. She arches up against him.

"Mr and Mrs Carson will be joining the party." She manages in between pants.

"Good…" Gregory kisses a path from her breast to her belly, licking the edge of her belly button and then lower and lower.

"God…" Beatrice moans and she forgets they are playing with fire.

He licks her in a place she did not know the existence of six weeks before but has been an increasing source of constant joy and her hands are in his hair.

"I need you…" She says breathlessly and pulls him up, tasting herself on his lips and he obliges happily.

"You'll be my wife in three weeks." He whispers in her ear. "You're perfect."

Bea wraps her legs around her man. "Glad to hear it."

* * *

* Gregory Wilmot. Hmmm... Where have we heard that before?


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** Dinner with the future father in law. With not-quite-parents. And it will go… well, rather like you'd expect.

* * *

Elsie has no way to hide the flush spreading over her chest whenever Captain Wilmot asks a personal question about Beatrice. So far she has answered them with ease, but he is digging deeper now they are having dessert (and he has taken several glasses of wine during the meal) and are moving on to the port. Elsie wonders if he understands she isn't the girl's mother.

"How do you feel about Beatrice earning her living as a secretary?"

"A girl has to have a skill, Captain Wilmot." Elsie says, daintily dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin. Unlike her host, she doesn't like speaking with her mouth full, nor to look as untidy.

"Not upset she's not following in her mother's footsteps, then?"

"Heavens no!" She responds, looking at Charles in alarm.

"And you? You are fine with her gallivanting all over the place, carrying her typewriter under her arm?" Bits of pea fly about and Elsie can see how embarrassed Gregory is, the lad is looking pained.

"She's a capable young woman, sir." Charles says, enunciating every word and Bea is blushing bright.

"Hmm." The Captain takes another bite and shoots another question at Elsie. "How do you feel about her marrying my boy?"

"Seeing how happy she is, and now that I've met him…" Elsie starts and smiles at Beatrice kindly. She can easily see a warning about propriety would have not been misplaced, but it's too late now. Elsie is glad the wedding is in three weeks. Very glad indeed.

"Bit late for a girl, isn't it?" It's hardly a question from the old Captain and Elsie's nostrils flare as her anger mounts.

"Best wait for someone you are sure of." She likes the diplomacy of her own answer; she finds it quite tactless of the man to say such a thing, she has hardly been married more than a month herself.

"And are you sure you want to marry my son?" He bites at Beatrice, who shrinks back a bit.

"Yes sir…" She says, her voice wavering a bit.

"Good. Because I don't like having that kind of funny business under my roof. And don't you think you were getting away with it, Greg Wilmot."

* * *

Beatrice cries hot tears, staining Lady Grantham's dress and Elsie strokes the girl's hair as it's coming undone.

"I'm ruined!" Bea sobs.

"Shh... You'll be marrying in three weeks... It will alright."

Elsie wants to say that Beatrice ought to have known better, that young love - young lust - is easily spotted. That it's rosy cheeks and furtive glances, one easy touch too many, one intimate sentence too swiftly spoken.

"Everyone will know!" Beatrice says, pain obvious in her voice.

"Greg's father knows. And now Mr Carson knows too. That's two people, dear. Hardly 'everyone'."

"What you must think of me..."

For a moment Elsie can see the frightened fourteen year old girl, sent yet again to a different school, not knowing how long she'll remain there, if it's worth investing in friendships. The lonely teenager growing into a lonely woman who doesn't truly understand how platonic affection works.

"You're not the first lass to give herself in love and you'll not be the last." Elsie pulls away from Beatrice, her dess a crumpled mess. She has no idea how she'll explain it to Miss Baxter when she has to return it.

"You knew?" Bea's voice is small as a child's.

Elsie smiles softly and nods slowly. "I guessed from your letters. And then I saw you when you met us at the station this afternoon and yes: I knew for certain then."

Bea covers her face with her hands, rocking back and forth slowly. Elsie gets up from the bed where they are sitting and starts fumbling with the fastenings of the borrowed dress.

"Would you please help me with this?" Her voice rings clear in the silent room and she waits for Beatrice to join her. Cold, trembling fingers undo the many hooks and eyes and the dress slides down Elsie's arms where she catches it.

"Thank you."

Bea nods.

* * *

Mrs Carson stands before her in her undies and it's the most intimate she's ever been with anyone (besides Greg and that is vastly different). Bea watches as Mrs Hughes deftly retrieves the laces of her corset, unties them and feeds them through the eyelets bit by bit, obviously giving her more room to breathe.

There's a plainer dress hanging over the back of the chair and the Housekeeper quickly dresses and turns.

"There. Now I feel more myself."

Bea understands that an answer is not required and she returns to the bed, her elbows on her knees, her chin resting in her hands. Her head feels indescribable heavy. Mrs Carson puts the evening gown (all satin and silk and unfortunately stained and creased after Bea's brief moment of despair) on a hanger and hangs it on the back of the wardrobe.

"It didn't feel wrong." She mumbles. "It felt _right_. Like everything finally came together and I at last truly belonged."

"I understand." Mrs Carson sits down next to her again, her arm slinding around Bea's waist and Bea leand against the softness (hemmed in by cotton and steel, but warm and pliable nonetheless).

"You've been careful, tough, haven't you? You and Greg?"

Bea frowns. "Careful? How do you mean?"

Mrs Carson looks slightly agitated then and sits up straighter. "You've made sure, one way or another you won't..."

"Won't what?" She remembers lessons of advanced trigonometry and not understanding every other word. This is even worse, she hates to disappoint Mrs Carson. She bites her lip.

"Bea... You and Greg have taken precautions. To avoid having a baby, haven't you?"

Beatrice' eyes widen in shock. "There are ways to prevent it?"

* * *

She finds Charles in their appointed bedroom looking as tired as she is. She closes the door with care and leans against it, sighing deeply.

"What happened after I went after Bea?"

"Not a whole lot. Greg's father kept slurping is port wine and Gregory was rather horrorstruck, keeping throwing me terrified looks. I had a bit of a word with him. "

"Oh dear, that sounds ominous."

"Not very. Boy was worried about Beatrice."

"Rightly so. He should have worried before."

"Could they not have waited six weeks?" He muses.

Elsie smiles at him and she shakes her head. "They've been engaged for two years, Charles. They held out as long as they could I suppose. At least the wedding will be soon."

"Yes. I think I have made it clear that I won't stand for postponing."

"Why would they postpone?" A coldness grips Elsie's heart.

"Foolish boy thinks Bea won't want him now." And Charles tells Elsie about how the boy apologised for his father's antics and for not having had the discipline to keep to himself. Of his love for Bea. Charles tells of how Greg will come into his share of his mother's inheritance upon marrying.

The latter puts Elsie more at ease than she cares to admit. The young couple will have a bit put by to live on and it will only come into Greg's hands upon marrying her girl. The young couple will be able to care for a little stranger when it comes along. If it comes along of course (her mind fleetingly flitting to Anna, married for long years without a bairn to bless the union).

"I am so tired..." She confesses. Charles nods.

"Lets go to bed." He offers and Elsie shimmies out of her dress, donned not half an hour before and grasps the busk of her corset tightly before snapping it open. The sudden influx of air makes her lightheaded for a moment. She's had it laced up far too tightly, for her bust wouldn't fit Lady Grantham's pretty evening gown if she didn't press it down as far as possible. She is glad to be free of the garment, even if she had loosened it before.

Her shift is soaked and she pulls it over her head, Charles watches her moves intently.

"I'm not as angry with him as I thought I would be. Or with her." He says and Elsie looks up.

"I had expected you to be livid." She states simply.

"Perhaps ten years ago. Five even. But I understand the temptation being too big. Love too strong to deny. I remember that night you snuck me into your room. We weren't even engaged."

"No, we weren't." Elsie admits.

"Come to bed, lass." He says then, his Yorkshire accent suddenly thick. "Lets not worry about this anymore tonight."

Elsie crawls beneath the covers and spoons against her husband, his hand coming to rest upon her belly and she cannot help but think of the girls who need her.

And how perhaps she is more than just a Housekeeper.

* * *

* I am sorry I have used the wrong abbreviation for Greg's dad in previous chapters. I don't understand military terms. I apologise.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** All the parents all the time.

* * *

She dreads breakfast like she supposes Joan of Arc dreaded the fire pit. She dresses carefully, conservatively. She brushes her teeth, her tooth powder spilling over the box leaving tiny scratches on the table's surface when she wipes it off. She brushes out her hair after loosening her braid and puts it up. When she checks the clock she finds she has five minutes at least before having to go down.

She paces the room. The guest rooms in Captain Wilmot's house are small. The furniture is dark and heavy, the curtains can't be pulled back enough, obscuring the window partially, the faint sunlight not reaching the far corners. She straightens the chair, puts her things in her small valise.

After the evening's humiliation she had wished to run away and never come back and she had wanted to tell Mrs Carson she was leaving. Instead she had wept against the kind woman's breast, had been held while she shook with the shame of it all and later she slept, fitfully, in the room across from Mrs Carson and Bea knew that if she had cried out in the night, she would have been heard.

But now it's almost eight and she will have to face Greg and Captain Wilmot. And Mr Carson. Who she had wanted so much to be her father. Again shame colours her cheeks. What must he think of her. How he must think her a common trollop. No better than her mother. Bea's belly aches with nerves and hurt.

When there's a knock on her door, she jumps. She opens the door ajar and finds it's Mr Carson standing there, looking his usual self.

"Goodmorning." He says and Bea shrugs. She opens the door wider and lets her guest in. Mr Carson doesn't close the door behind him. Propriety is such a big part of his makeup, Bea thinks when she offers him the chair. He sits down and she can feel how he scrutinises her.

"Have you slept well?" He asks and Bea can feel a smile tugging on the corner of her lip.

"I've slept, though not well."

"Hmm." He clasps his hands together before continuing. "I understand you've spoken with my wife."

He sounds so proud when he says that particular word and suddenly Bea understands why Mr Carson must be here: he is going to ask for her ring on Greg's behalf. Greg cannot stand the sight of her and sends Mr Carson instead of facing her himself. Her aching belly roars silently, a wave of nausea hits her.

She just nods to answer.

"She tells me you love Gregory very much."

Bea nods again. "I do. I love him." Her own words wound her, cut her like a knife.

"Good. Alright." Mr Carson sighs deeply and runs his hand over his face. "I'll not pretend to be happy about what happened between you and your fiance…" He pauses. Long..

"My wife tells me that you've been engaged for two years."

"Yes, we have been…"

"Why did you wait so long to get married? It cannot have been because of the money. As I understand it, Mr Wilmot comes into his part of his mother's inheritance upon marrying you."

"I needed… time…" Bea swallows. "I didn't know…" She starts again, only to fall into silence once more. "I've been trying to figure out how I could be a good wife to him. I thought finding my father might help. Greg was very patient and he encouraged me to find you when I was finally free of the care for my mother.."

Her voice is soft, but clear and Mr Carson listens to her intently. She takes a deep breath.

"And I still don't know how to be a wife." She confesses. She is still standing in front of Mr Carson and she is feeling about six years old when he suddenly takes her hand. His is soft and warm and so big. Hers disappears in it and tears well up in her eyes.

"I think Mrs Carson will be able to teach you a thing or two about being a wife." He squeezes her hand softly. "I've no doubt you'll be an apt pupil."

His kindness is rather overwhelming and she has trouble biting back the tears. "I doubt Greg will want me now."

Mr Carson rises from the old-fashioned chair and he is so tall, Bea has to look up to him even more than to Greg, though she is a tall girl herself.

"Do not worry about that. Mr Wilmot told me he is very much afraid you don't want him anymore because of his father and he asked me to talk to you on his behalf. He very much still wants to marry you. I think he sees a future with you and I must say I agree with him. I think you are well suited."

Bea's free hand flies to her mouth and she manages to push back her squeal. "Thank you." She says when she feels composed enough.

"Come now." He lets go of her hand after gingerly planting a kiss on top of her head. Bea can tell he's never done that before, not with someone who isn't his wife. A warmth spreads over her chest, the coiling of her belly subsides.

* * *

"Is your father not joining us?" Elsie asks Gregory who is sitting next to her at the breakfast table. Charles and Bea are still upstairs it seems. Captain Wilmot is suspiciously absent.

"I don't think so. He's not a morning person." Gregory says and Elsie can see angry red blotches appear in his neck.

"I see." Elsie leans over the table to pick up the teapot and she pours herself and Greg a cup. The sideboard is still empty, Elsie supposes her early rising has thrown off the kitchen staff and she is happy to wait. It will give her a moment to speak with Gregory.

"Did you sleep well?" She asks, knowing full well he didn't, judging by the dark circles under his eyes and the way his movements are slow and clumsy.

"No. I kept thinking of Bea and what my father said and how I have… Well. It's not been a good night." He responds.

"I think you've spoken with my husband after dinner."

"Yes. He was rather protective of Bea."

Elsie smiles. "I can imagine."

"There's no need though, because I love her and I want to marry her, but I doubt she will want me now. Knowing what my father really is, how he will never hold back, how he will humiliate anyone for his own amusement. I think she always knew he was a bit of a character, she has worked for him for almost three years, you know, but he never said anything this cruel before."

"Do you mean he has been unpleasant towards Beatrice before?" Elsie is shocked by this bit of information.

"He is forgetful and he doesn't think before he speaks. His ship was torpedoed in the war and he had been in the water a good while before being picked up. It's… it's changed him." Gregory explains and Elsie thinks how it's kind of him to defend his father, to come up with excuses.

"The war has changed everybody." Elsie says diplomatically.

"Yes. But not all of us started drinking heavily." Gregory sighs. "Bea was the seventh secretary he hired to help him with his memoires. She handled all of his wiles beautifully. She can be so fierce and demanding..." He trails off for a moment.

He is smitten, Elsie thinks and it warms her heart. Bea has nothing to worry about.

"And she often made time to take me on a walk. It took forever for my leg to heal, but she was very encouraging."

"Your leg?" Elsie asks. She hasn't noticed anything.

"Broken when going over the top. Ladder snapped in half, fell on the ground, me on top of it. Broke my leg in three places. Field hospital was good, but allowances had to be made when there's chaps coming in that had been gassed. Patched me up as good as they could and shipped me back home. They had to reset it, but they didn't do it until Bea was already working for us."

"Does it bother you?" Elsie worries immediately, seeing Mr Bates before her and how his injury holds him back, holds Anna back.

"No." Greg shrugs. "Have to keep it moving though, I'm glad Bea enjoys long walks. I have been thinking about getting us bicycles."

Elsie cannot help but think how they are probably more in need of a pram soon if the pair of them keep up what they've been doing.

"I wish to take her away from here. We cannot live here, not with my father the way he is. You know Bea, she wouldn't say, but she doesn't exactly thrive when there's an atmosphere in the house and there is always something brewing here."

"What do you suggest, Mr Wilmot?"

"I can work anywhere as long there's a bit of Northern light and a space where I can set up my table. There's a cottage for sale in Thirsk. I was thinking Bea and I could set up house there."

"A cottage?"

"With a garden. I know Bea would like a garden. To have that freedom of going outside when she can. I think we could be happy."

He is looking at Elsie so imploringly and she closes her eyes for a bit. When she opens them, she makes her demands

"Marry her as soon as you can, Mr Wilmot. Gregory. Do not linger."

"I will take her to the Registry Office in the morning." He promises.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** This chapter took several years of my life. Or perhaps not that, but it did take an awful lot of writing, deleting, whining and I finally decided to post this so we can move onto the next chapter: transitions are difficult, in life as well as in writing. I apologise and hope you'll bear with me.

* * *

The young couple had not wanted to wait until the next day. Elsie and Charles escorted them to the Registry Office and stood as witnesses for Gregory and Beatrice. After the hastened ceremony - if it could be called that - Elsie had pulled Beatrice back into the corridor for a hurried, whispered warning, whilst Charles and Gregory rushed off to the Wilmot's family solicitor to sign the deeds needed to purchase the house (and key) and the papers that would settle the matter of his mother's will.

"I'll not insult you by telling you to close your eyes tonight, to pray it will be over quickly." Elsie had started. Bea had looked pale and slightly unwell and Elsie felt immediately sorry for being so to the point, so insensitive. She cupped Beatrice' cheek before continuing. "But you are starting your life with a husband sooner than you thought, in a house that will be your home for a good time to come without you having seen it. I know you two are in love… but… Marriage is more than loving each other. It's…" She'd searched for the right word when Bea had flown to the wastepaper basket and emptied the contents of her stomach.

"Must be nerves." The girl said after wiping her mouth on the handkerchief Elsie handed her.

"Must be." Elsie responded and the two women had looked at each other, unspoken words brewing between them.

"Beatrice… I've little advice to give." Elsie glanced at the door, expecting it to open at any moment.

"I'm not sure we did the right thing…" Bea suddenly said, looking pained and frightened.

"It is." Elsie told her, adamantly. "Like I said: it won't be easy. You've neither an example of what a marriage looks like and you will have to figure it out between the pair of you."

Elsie had been worried. In the same way she had always worried about Anna and in the way she knew Charles worried over Lady Mary.

"We'll be alright." Beatrice had said, colour flooding back to her cheeks. "I know it."

Elsie took in the determined look on Beatrice' face. "Yes. Yes, of course you will." She had said.

And what was more: she believed it.

* * *

Charles had helped the footman strap the last of the boxes to the roof of the car when Gregory returned with a serious look on his face and a thick envelope clutched in his hand.

"Well." The boy had said. "It's all done. According to Mr Prendergast the house should be in order. I'm glad I discussed everything with him when Bea and I set a date…" He looked rather pained.

"I need to call off the church…"

"I can do that if you want." Charles had offered and Gregory had thankfully accepted.

"Do you think we did the right thing?" The words came hesitantly.

Charles had looked at the boy, at a loss for words. "I hope so." He said. Honesty would serve him better than platitudes. "You've been engaged to Beatrice for two years and you know each other well." He could feel his ears colour at this unintended implication.

Gregory had looked away before he said: "I love her."

"Love alone is not enough, Gregory." Charles had said. "Marriage requires attention to detail and constant care." He worried about the young pair. They had nobody to teach them what a marriage was, nobody to lead them by example. Even though he had his Elsie, it was not the same. They lived under another man's roof, worked together, their days filled with duty. Charles had not wooed Elsie in the traditional sense and he had not taken her from her home to set up house with him. Filling a small cottage with the sounds of laughter and lullabies. Gregory was probably halfway that road already.

"I will take the best possible care of her, Mr Carson. I promise. But she's…"

"An independent sort." Charles had supplemented.

"That she is. She is witty and strong and underneath she is warm and kind." The boy had smiled happily.

"Does the house have any furniture at all?" Charles tried to steer the conversation back to safer heights.

"Yes, according to Prendergast the house is furnished. Not well. But it will do."

Charles had thought of how Elsie sat each evening across from him - sometimes next to him, her thigh pressed against his, making it nigh impossible for him to think straight - stitching painstakingly at sheets and pillowcases, their initials interlocking in dark blue silk. How she was preparing herself - and him, in her indomitable way - for a life outside Downton Abbey.

"We'll get you settled." Charles had said.

"Thank you."

* * *

Downton is not far from Thirsk and after having said goodbye in front of the servants' entrance Gregory and Beatrice go back home. Hoping they will be able to light a fire in the hearth and to celebrate their special day. Charles and Elsie had helped them get settled, unpacking the few boxes. Elsie had helped Beatrice make the brass bed in the master bedroom, showing her the tricks that make the perfect corners. They had all been quiet in the car. Charles had shook Gregory's hand, Elsie had held Beatrice close, had whispered something in her ear, a promise that she would come by soon.

They go inside and are welcomed by the staff and a steaming shepherds' pie kept warm for them in the oven by a curious Mrs Patmore. But tonight they'll not discuss their few days away. They check up on ledgers and tasks fulfilled - and not. They praise where possible, correct where needed. They are called into the Library to speak with Lord and Lady Grantham, neither of them very pleased their heads of staff returned much later than anticipated.

Charles promises it won't happen again. Elsie looks at him hopefully, something Cora Crawley doesn't miss and immediately starts thinking how she will fill the void her Butler and Housekeeper will leave behind when the pair trots off into the sunset. Judging by the way they smile at each other, it's clear it won't be long now.

* * *

"Good God, what a day." Charles lets the words fall from his mouth, his rumbling voice magnified in the dimly lit bathroom where Elsie is scrubbing his back with a flannel, perched on the edge of the bath.

"Not one we experience every week." Elsie says primly, squeezing the flannel against his shoulder, the water running down his back.

"Which is rather a good thing." He grunts when Elsie rubs the tight muscles in his shoulders. She doesn't say anything, but plants a kiss in his wet hair.

"I can't believe the sheer amount of events we went through today." He gets up and steps out of the bath, instantly wrapped in a towel by his wife. She is in her shift and wets a new flannel washing herself quickly and efficiently. There is none of the tantalizing teasing she sometimes feast him on, her movements hurried, focused on the task at hand. He dries himself off quickly, changes into his pyjamas.

He crosses the hall, careful not to get 'caught' by any of the maids - they are none of them used to the new situation yet, another reason why he sometimes thinks of a small cottage where they can indulge in a tub in the kitchen on Saturday night, splashing about, enjoying each other - and enters their room and gets into bed. He turns on the lamp on the bedside table and waits for Elsie.

When she joins him, she lets out a pained groan.

"Are you alright?" He asks and she smiles. She kisses him on the cheek.

"Glad to be back in our own bed." She snuggles up to him.

"That's the only thing you are glad about?" He puts his arm around her, pulling her as close as possible. She smells of lavender and lemon and though she has just washed, he can still smell her own scent.

"I am also very glad we've gotten those two married off this morning." She turns to face him, her legs rubbing against his.

"Why?" Charles asks.

"Oh… lets say it's a good thing the cottage has so many bedrooms."

"You mean…" He knows exactly what she means, he just needs a second or two to wrap his head around the idea.

"I mean that I am certain there will be a baby soon." She tears up, he can hear the sob she strangles deep inside her throat.

"A baby…" He says the word as if it's foreign to him. Elsie just nods and he wipes away the tear that has spilled onto her cheek. "They'll be fine." He kisses her forehead and holds his wife until she falls asleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** You are awesome. If you ever feel unappreciated as a reader/reviewer/champion, remember how much I love you.

* * *

"My word…" Elsie sinks down in Charles' chair at the head of the table after plonking down her basket.

"What's the matter?" Anna is mending one of Lady Mary's delicate underthings. It's quiet in the Servants' Hall, most of the staff is occupied.

"I had no idea how much work it is to get an empty house filled." Elsie takes off her hat and puts it on her own chair, checks her hair by gingerly touching it.

"Yes. It can be a lot of work." There's an edge to Anna's voice. Elsie looks at the girl who is holding on to the fabric white knuckled, her eyes too focused on her work to be natural.

"What's wrong?" Elsie cuts right to the chase.

"Nothing."

Elsie huffs. "There must be something. You'll make the tear worse if you keep pulling at it like that." She indicates the satin slip. Anna nods.

"We'll go into my parlour." Elsie pushes the chair back, picks up her hat and basket. The two women move silently to the bright sitting room Elsie occupies during the day. There is still a ledger open on her desk.

"Now, tell me what's wrong." She asks Anna after settling down. Her feet ache. She desperately wants a cup of tea, but she cannot have an atmosphere like this between herself and her girl.

"It's nothing really…" Anna starts, her mouth tight.

"Must be something, Anna. I've not known you to speak to me like that before."

"Perhaps not."

Elsie waits. Sometimes it's better to wait than to push, better to be quiet than to force someone to speak. The silence hangs between them uncomfortably. Elsie opens the top button of her blouse, runs her finger against the irritated skin. There are days she longs for the dresses the young girls wear, giving them more freedom to move, more breath to be taken in.

"You've gone to meet with Beatrice three times already." Anna blurts out and Elsie cannot help but chuckle.

"Are you keeping count?"

"Not deliberately." Anna's cheeks colour.

"Does it bother you so much?"

Anna shrugs. "Not really. I mean… A little. You've offered all of your half days up to go to Thirsk and…"

"And what?" Elsie is positively puzzled by Anna's reaction.

"You've not…" And then Anna mumbles something Elsie simply cannot make out.

"What was that?" She asks while standing up, picking up her chair and sitting closer to her girl.

"You've not taken tea with me once since we've moved into the cottage…" It feels like a confession and Elsie suddenly understands.

"Anna, I've not come round because you and Mr Bates the same half days - which I try to give you at least twice a month - and I know you both cherish your time together. I wouldn't want to impose." She explains her reasons as clearly as she can. She doesn't like to say out loud she doesn't want to find the Valet and Lady's Maid in flagrante delicto.

She sees a tear drop on Anna's knee. "I had no idea it mattered so much to you." She puts her hand on Anna's as it lays on the armrest.

"Neither did I…" When Anna looks up, Elsie finds her eyes are filled with more unspilled tears. When she reaches out, she accidentally hits the basket on the table and it falls on the floor, things rolling out. A magazine, a pencil. White cotton yarn and the start of something small on two needles.

"Oh no…" Anna whispers.

Elsie is the one to nod now. "Yes." She picks up her things and puts them back on the table before turning to Anna again. "I'm sorry."

Anna starts to cry in earnest and Elsie sighs deeply. She pulls Anna up from her seat and puts her arms around her, cradling the small woman against her shoulder. "Sssh…Sssh…" She tries to soothe and kisses Anna's temple.

* * *

"Would it kill you to take your mug back into the kitchen? For heavens' sake!" Bea is finding his mugs - tea-stained and all - all over the house. In the parlour, in his study, even in their bedroom and in between her constant throwing up and the worries of suddenly being the mistress of the house, it's just too much.

"What was that?" He asks from his comfortable place on the sofa. They've picked it out for it's softness and it's width so they could curl up on it together. Every evening, after dinner, they sit down with a book or magazine and cuddle up together. But now it irritates her how he doesn't even bother to look up.

"Your mugs!" She says, loudly. "When you're done with them, put them in the kitchen!" She doesn't want to go through the whole house rounding up his dirty dishes before getting started on the washing up. She isn't used to doing housework. She had to ask Mrs Carson which towel to use for the glasses. It had made her feel inadequate.

"Don't fuss so, Bea." Greg answers and tears spring to her eyes.

"I'm not fussing." She is trembling. "

"Bea, leave me in peace. Can't you see I'm working?"

Beatrice steps back into the kitchen, closes the door carefully behind her and stifles her angry crying by pressing a tea towel against her face.

* * *

"Telephone, Mr Carson!" James calls and Charles puts down his pen. He blots the last numbers he's entered and speeds to the telephone.

"This is Charles Carson." He says into the mouth piece.

"Mr Carson? Gregory Wilmot."

Charles is surprised. Elsie had visited with the pair just that morning. He has heard her come back, she is in her parlour with Anna. The walls are thin, he has heard the girl crying. He never knows what to do when such things happen - crying, worrying, wailing. When it is Elsie it's easier - he'd just pull her towards him, hold her and give her time to let it all out. That usually does the trick. Same for Lady Mary - he has comforted her since she was no more than three feet high. With Anna he always wants to do _something_ but he never quite knows what.

"Gregory? Has Elsie forgotten something?" It's the only reason he could imagine the boy would call for.

"No. No. Nothing like that." There is a sigh like a hurricane on the other end of the line and Charles flinches a bit.

"Has anything happened?" He tries to remain calm, but it isn't easy.

"Bea keeps crying and I don't know what to do." Gregory's voice is timid.

"Crying?" Oh dear.

"Well, she asks something and I answer and then she gets angry and stalks off and then I find her crying somewhere else in the house. It is disconcerting, Mr Carson."

"Yes. I can imagine." He rubs his forehead. "What did she ask you?" He hopes it will at least shine a light on things.

"Something about bringing my teacup to the kitchen. Trivial things."

"Can't have been trivial if she is crying about it, Gregory." His voice is suddenly laced with fatherly severity.

"She wants me to bring my cup into the kitchen. Really. That's nothing to cry about. A man forgets these things."

"Hmm. You know, your wife has not previous experience running a household. She has never taken care of a home or a husband before. A little courtesy towards her might go a long way, my boy."

"Yes, Mr Carson." The boys sounds suitably chastised.

"And you'll both learn to take each other into account as time goes by."

"Yes, sir." The boy sighs up a storm again. "I just wish she wouldn't cry like that. I wish she would just tell me."

"Well…" Oh, how he doesn't want to address it, but Gregory leaves him little choice. "You have to look after her a bit more than you were used to, Gregory. She is very independent, much like my Elsie, but…"

"She never used to cry before. I've never even seen her crying until a week ago."

"Yes, I understand, but her _circumstances_ have changed somewhat. Haven't they."

Silence.

"Gregory?"

"I'm a bad husband."

Charles doesn't react immediately. He understands it must be hard to be thrown together without much preamble and then to have to navigates those treacherous waters only to find your wife in… _a delicate condition._ He coughs.

"I'd better go and find her. Apologise." Gregory sounds determined.

"That's probably best."

"Thank you, Mr Carson."

"'Twas nothing, my boy." Charles rings off and lets his head fall back, the muscles in his neck protesting.


	16. Chapter 16

"Had you told me a year ago I would be lying in bed with my husband at night discussing the trials and tribulations of two young women who are by all means quite grown up and independent, I would have laughed in their faces." Elsie is snuggled up against Charles, her head on his shoulder, her arm flung carelessly over his chest. He kisses the top of her head now and then.

"I'd not believed any part of that." He agrees.

"Poor girls..." She then says.

"Beatrice and Gregory will be alright. They just need to find a way to _work_ together."

"Work together?"

"They need to become a team. They need to learn to depend on each other and to plant a seed of trust. They love each other, are devoted. And they ask for help." He traces a pattern on Elsie's arm, the pad of his finger soft on her skin.

"They need to learn before the baby comes." Elsie decides for the young pair.

"Yes. But it's not something they can establish in a day or a week, Elsie."

"I know..." Elsie turns and plants a little kiss on his chest. "I had thought to visit them again next week, but now with Anna..."

"What's the matter with Anna?" They had discussed Beatrice and Gregory and the cottage that was so much bigger than what they thought of as a cottage. A small mansion was a better word for it. They'd not spoken of the crying coming from Elsie's parlour that afternoon.

"She is upset because I've been to Thirsk so much."

"Why would she be upset about that?"

"Because she wants me to spend time with her too."

They don't speak for a long moment.

"I never thought..."

"Me neither. We see her every day." Elsie agrees.

"Is that why she was crying this afternoon?"

"Noooooo... Well, yes, but..." Elsie pushes herself up on her elbow, looking Charles in the eye.

"She is terribly upset Beatrice is expecting."

Charles groans. "Girls should come with a manual."

Elsie laughs.

"Imagine raising two girls..." She responds.

"Looks like we are."

A lump suddenly settles in Elsie's throat.

"Yes... Maybe we've been raising boys and girls for much longer than we realised."

"Says the woman who receives more post than a moviestar." Charles teases, referring to the stacks of Christmas and birthday cards addressed to Downton's Housekeeper that seems to grow each year.

"It's different with those two." She reasons.

"I know."

"I've let Anna get too close. Allowed her to..."

"It's alright. She needed your care and your kindness." He tries to assure her.

"Is this what it feels like to be a parent?" She asks. "The constant worry? My heart aches for Anna's hopelessness, I worry that Beatrice and Gregory won't make it if we don't give them some guidance, but I don't want to hurt Anna either by going there so much she feels left out."

She can feel Charles ponder before responding and she says: "What a mess..."

* * *

"I love you." He says.

"I love _you_." She returns his words. She does, she loves him. Sometimes so intensely, it aches. He runs his hand from her upper arm to her shoulder down her breast. It tingles under his touch. Her nipple springs painfully to life, but she doesn't let on. His hand travels further down, his finger tracing her belly button and then below. She isn't showing yet, but her flesh feels firmer there. He slips his hand under the elastic of her knickers.

"Greg..." It's hard to deny him, especially now her body reacts so keenly to his touch, even more than before she... Well. Before.

He stills. "What's the matter?" He asks.

"We cannot solve our problems this was. Some, perhaps. But sometimes we'll need to talk about them."

"You want to talk?" He asks, sounding hurt.

"Yes. We _need_ to talk and then afterwards we can... You know." They've not built a vocabulary for their actions yet. She hasn't found the right words.

"Alright." He slowly pulls his hand away from her mound and softly strokes his thumb over the tauter flesh of her belly.

"We need to work together." Bea starts. "You know, women don't come with a Mrs Beeton's imprinted in our minds."

Greg laughs. "I grew up with servants. I've never really had to pick up after myself, even though Nanny tried, of course."

"Thank goodness you have redeeming qualities."

"Yes. Well... So do you."

"Greg?" Her voice is soft. Her request is a necessary one, but she doesn't know if it will be granted.

"Yeesss?" He teases and she smiles.

"Would it be possible for us to have someone come in two or three times a week? To do*?"

"What would that cost?" He asks and she loves him for not saying 'no'.

"I'm not sure. Mrs Carson will know. I'll ask her. If it is at all affordable... I mean.. It's not really urgent yet... But..." She searches for the right words.

"It's alright." He strokes her cheek. "But what?"

Bea puts her hand on her belly. "In some weeks it might not be so easy for me to move..."

She had hated telling Greg that Mrs Carson's predictions had come true. She'd faced it when they'd been married one week. The doctor's sneer had hurt her, her shame burnt her cheeks. She was glad she didn't have to see him anymore. One of the midwives was going to look after her.

Bea had been thankful Greg had taken the news so well. But they didn't speak of it. And she had not told him she was scared. Scared of how things would change for her, for them, for their lives.

"Ah yes. Mr Carson did say that I should be a bit more careful with you."

"You spoke to Mr Carson?"

"I telephoned him. I was so worried about you."

"What did he say?" She is more curious than angry or upset.

"That I should care for you more. Because your circumstances have changed somewhat."

"Yes..." Bea looks up at the ceiling, a tear escaping her. "I'm sorry..."

"No!" He says, quite vehemently. "No, Bea. Don't be sorry. We were both there and it's..." He sighs. Bea is crying softly. He wipes away her tears with gentle fingers.

"It's love. It's because you love me and I love you. I daresay we are ill prepared." He laid his hand tenderly on her belly and Bea's breath hitched.

"But we'll learn together."

* * *

"Perhaps it's not so much a mess as it's a muddle." She says, soothed by the patterns Charles traces on her back.

"Hmm..." He is drowsy and warm. She knows he'll fall asleep soon. She smiles. Their honeymoon is officially over - there are nights they are just too tired to do more than cuddle up.

"Sleep..." She shushes him and watches the change in his face. He is beautiful to her in ways she had never thought possible. Asleep she can see the boy he must have been and she presses her hand against her stomach to push away the hollow feelings she get sometimes.

They had made their choices. Love, but at a small distance. The infrequent giving in to lust, always careful, never giving into it fully.

Back then she could have given him a son.

She swallows hard. So many boys pass before her eyes. Hallboys and footmen that they had trained over the years. None of them truly theirs. But then there's the face of Beatrice - tall, dark haired Beatrice who looks so like Charles at first glance. Anna who is slight and blonde, but resembles her in Elsie's indominatable ways: her curiosity, her proactivity.

She presses herself against Charles, his arm wrapping around her, spooning her without being coaxed.

Before she drifts off, she wonders if her daughters sleep like this too.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N:** Timejumps will happen sometimes and it won't always be clear if it's days, weeks or even months. If things are unclear for you, please tell me in your review/comment or PM me!

* * *

She comes downstairs humming a tune, the touch of her husband on her, the burn of his ministrations tangible with every step she takes. Their loving had started out slow and sleepy, their hands heavy and uncontrolled, sliding, grabbing. She had pressed herself against him, her gown ridden up to her hips, pushed up further by his still uncooperative hands. Their senses awakened by their need. They had rocked together unhurriedly, the dawn breaking over them, basking them in the faint light as it streamed through the crack in the curtains. She had told him of her undying love, he'd whispered his eternal devotion, voices hoarse from sleep and arousal. Birds had been chirping, the house had been silent. When Daisy's knock came ("Six thirty, Mrs Hughes, I mean, Mrs Carson!") they had been a tangled mess of boneless limbs, satisfied and spent, her thighs quivering from having been on top of her man, riding him, her head falling back, her hands on his legs to support herself. His hands had been on her hips, steadying her, his fingertips digging in her flesh (she is more substantial these days, there is more to her now than when they had loved each other first, but its no matter, it means they have been living well), his muffled outcry when she had reached for herself _there_, deftly rubbing herself to an outstanding orgasm that had shaken her to her core.

Of course she is singing now.

"You're in a good mood."

Elsie is slightly startled by the voice of Anna, who is sitting at the Servants' Hall table, smiling at her.

"You are here early. Has Lady Mary sent for you?" She is suddenly afraid she must have missed something - a harrowing experience. She never misses anything that goes on the house, least of all things that have to do with her duties or those of her girls.

"I wanted to catch you before you were too busy." Anna looks a bit shy before continuing. "I was hoping you had time to take tea with me this afternoon. John is helping Mr Carson and it's my afternoon off."

Elsie smiles. "It will be a pleasure." She sits down in her usual seat. "I am glad you are inviting me."

"I thought about waiting for you to come to me again, but then I realised that maybe I should ask, so you would know I'd like to see sometimes when we are not both busy taking care of somebody else and their needs. We could talk of other things."

"That would be nice." She reaches over the table and captures the small hand of the Lady's Maid with her own. "Very nice."

* * *

Things are definitely getting better, Bea thinks as she stands in the doorway of their bedroom, a cup of tea in hand. Her robe is tied above her waist now, the fabric is falling over her small bump. There is a definitely a baby in there; she has felt the flutterings of a new life, her nausea and extreme fatigue have subsided. Now she is feeling better, more energetic, more like herself, they don't fight as much. They are learning, day by day, to adjust to being two people who share a home. Their routines are welding together, their conversations are getting back to the way they were before they got married. Easy and comfortable. They are looking to the future and learning to live in the 'now'. A luxury Bea has never had before.

Three times a week, a middle-aged woman from the village comes in to do*, Mrs Carson is teaching Bea how to make the beds pristinely, how to keep the place tidy and neat. Bea has written to Anna, asking for advice and she had received a long letter with little tips and tricks and a bit of gossip about Mr and Mrs Carson.

Everything Bea learns, she puts into action and she is starting to get a hang of housekeeping. She touches her belly as her child moves, it's kicks for now undetected on the outside and takes the last sip of her tea. She walks into the bedroom, puts her mug on the nightstand, takes off her robe and crawls under the covers, snuggling up close to her husband and proceeds to wake him with tiny little kisses.

She is _really_ starting to get the hang of this being a wife lark.

* * *

When he asked her why she needed flowers, she had told him she wanted to bring Anna something. Something that she didn't _need_, but something that would be appreciated nonetheless. Every time she visits Beatrice, she takes her advice, her skills and her knowledge, but Anna doesn't need to know how to clean a chandelier and Anna doesn't need to learn how to share her worries and thoughts with her husband. So obviously Elsie needed something else entirely. He had shaken his head, pulled her into his arms and kissed her softly.

"You are becoming quite the Mother Hen, you know…" He told her and she had smiled at him.

"Am I?"

"Suits you."

She had blushed under that remark and she can feel its trace on her cheeks now she is putting the flowers he had found her in her basket. Her darning is in there ** and her knitting - not that she would pull that out in front of Anna, there's no need to rub salt in the wound. She checks herself in the mirror, pushes a stray lock of hair back under her hat and starts to leave.

"Mrs Hughes?"

These few months of being Mrs Carson do nothing to her instinct to react to the name she had used for decades.

"Yes, Daisy?" Of all the staff, Daisy is the one having the most trouble remembering her new name. Perhaps the girl feels nothing has changed much. And she would be right. Besides being able to show their affection and sharing a bedroom, nothing has changed.

"I've made you these." Daisy hands her a small parcel in waxed paper.

"Thank you."

"They're Anna's favourite." Elsie carefully places the baked goods in her basket, next to the flowers. "They're a bit warm from the oven, but she likes them best that way." Daisy almost bounces.

"That is very sweet of you, Daisy." Elsie touches the girl's cheek, smiling lovingly at her.

"Daisy!" A voice calls from the kitchen.

"Coming, Mrs Patmore!"

Elsie watches the girl run back to her usual place, nods to herself and sets off to the Bates's cottage.

* * *

"You're up early." He mumbles and turns around to face her. She knows his day will be filled with work - he is illustrating an advertisement campaign and she has seen some of the first sketches. She loves his work and though she knows he feels like he is selling out - selling his talent for money - she feels it is a very practical use of an impractical talent and she never fails to tell him how much she appreciates and admires his art. He has been making sketches of her since they became more than just acquainted and he keeps them in a special folder in his desk. She never asks to see them, she knows what she looks like from looking in the mirror and from the way he looks at her. Being beautiful in his eyes is enough for her.

"Hmm. Getting back on schedule." She agrees. She has always been an early riser. At school because she had no choice and was forced out of bed long before she was ready and rested, later because of the demands of employers. Greg is not a morning person, easily sleeping in until nine or even longer, but staying up later than she. They have been making time for each other in the afternoons, before or after tea. Or skipping tea altogether.

"What are your plans for today?" He asks in between sweet kisses on her cheeks, her forehead, her nose.

"According to my schedule I am washing dishes after every meal, sorting laundry and sending it out and I am meeting with the midwife for the first time."

"Hmm… sounds like you'll have your hands full today." He nuzzles her neck, his hands busy raising the hem of her nightgown. "Much too busy for me this afternoon…"

"Whatever shall we do?" She asks in mock worry, smiling at Greg and he grins back.

"Perhaps we should make the most of your early rising…" He suggests.

"I'm not the only early riser…" Bea chuckles at her own naughty words as she presses herself against her husband, his desire obvious against her hip.

"Who could stay asleep when being woken so sweetly?" He answers, his palm on her thigh, her skin tingling, her breathing shallowing as he slips his fingers in between the elastic of her knickers, caressing her bum.

"Not me…" She gives as good as she gets, her fingertips sliding over his naked arm and chest, tracing his nipple.

He claims her mouth and she gives into his sudden hunger, happy and in love.

* * *

* Taking care of the 'big' works, like scrubbing the steps, cleaning the bathroom and toilet, washing the windows etc

** 'Never be idle' was the motto most women lived by in the last century. We have all come across ladies knitting on public transport, haven't we


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N:** Here, have a timejump. And fluff.

* * *

"Telephone, Mr Carson." Jimmy says.

"Who could be calling me?" He asks and Elsie is overwhelmed by the rush of nerves that suddenly invades her body.

"It's Mr Wilmot, Mr Carson." The footman elaborates.

Charles is up like a flash, hurrying to the phone and Elsie cannot help but follow him.

"This is Charles Carson speaking." He says into the mouthpiece and Elsie can hear his voice trembling slightly. There is a short answer from the other side of the line.

'It's started' he mouths to her and she clasps her hands together.

"How is she doing?" He demands to know and she loves him so, she loves how he cares, how he worries. She worries, of course she does. Who wouldn't after the births they have seen.

"I don't know. Gregory wasn't very informative. He's just said things are underway and if we could please both come."

"I'll ask Mr Branson if he could perhaps take us there."

"We can take the bus." Charles says sternly and Elsie quirks her eyebrows.

"You can take a bus, I am asking Tom." She can feel the determined set of her jaw.

When he sighs and rolls his eyes, she knows she has won.

* * *

"Mrs Carson?" Elsie looks up from her magazine. She has trouble concentrating, the sounds of Bea's anguish interfering with every line of the article she tries to engross herself in.

"Mrs Wilmot wants her mother." The midwife says, looking pointedly at Elsie.

"Oh dear..." Elsie turns to Charles. "I had not expected that. Maybe there's the photo..."

"Sorry to interrupt Mrs Carson, but it's coming on her time and she needs you _now_ and not your photograph. Photographs don't hold your hand."

"She wants me?" Elsie asks incredulously.

"Of course she does." The midwife stalks back to the hall, her footsteps even. "Come on, Mrs Carson. Girl wants her mother, best stop dallying."

A piercing wail comes from the bedroom and Elsie forgets about her magazine and hurries after the midwife and to the side of the bed where Bea is perspiring heavily, her cheeks a dark red from the exertions of the morning.

"I thought you'd never come..." She pants and grabs Elsie's hand, squeezing hard as she fights the pain of another contraction.

"Bea... I am not Agnes..." She brushes away moist strands of hair from the girl's forehead, thoughts of Lady Sybil flooding her mind.

"I know. I may be in agony, but I am quite lucid. You're more of a mother to me than Agnes ever was."

Another contraction hits and Beatrice grunts, an earthly, animalistic sound that chases any discussion away.

"Alright, Mrs Wilmot, with the next one I want you to really bear down."

Bea looks at Elsie in alarm. Elsie nods. "Just listen to what she says. She has brought hundreds of healthy babies into the world." She lets go of Bea's hand and smiles when the girl whimpers in worry. She quickly shrugs off her cardigan and kneels by the bed, her hand immediately clutched.

"Mrs Carson will you tell your daughter that fighting it is only going to make it harder?" The midwife sounds irritated. Elsie cannot help but smile.

"Bea, you have arrived at the final part of this journey and you must trust Sister Frances and yourself. Your body knows what it's doing. When the pain comes, push. Through your bottom (advise heard so very long ago as her mother told her sister when she delivered her first boy, what she had told Ethel during that desolate night Charlie was born) and don't..." Her words are cut off by a roar, her hand being crushed as Beatrice heeds Elsie's advice.

Three more pushes and an angry, fragile cry echoes through the cottage.

* * *

"You did it." Elsie says and nurses her sore hand for a moment, watching Sister Frances clean up the baby and wrap it it in the towel Gregory must have provided earlier.

"It's a girl, Mrs Wilmot." Sister Frances places the baby in Bea's waiting arms and Elsie cannot help but shed a few tears. She presses a soft kiss on her girl's brow and nods to the midwife who busies herself with the final stages of the birth.

"Mrs Wilmot, there will be one more push…" She says and Bea shrugs, enchanted by her baby, who is no longer crying, but laying still against her mother's chest, alert, one tiny hand waving. Elsie doesn't pay attention to the midwife, she just watches how Beatrice counts the fingers and toes of her baby, how she looks at her in amazement.

"Perhaps you can try to feed her." She offers, thinking how it has been so long since she was present at a birth and how everything she remembers from those times comes flooding back bit by bit as the miracle unfolds.

"I don't know how…" Beatrice admits and Elsie smiles gently.

"You'll catch on quick enough." She leans in to undo the ties of Bea's nightgown and watches as Bea brings her baby to her breast. The newborn latches on after a while and Elsie gets up from her uneasy position by the bed.

"Will it be alright for me to notify Mr Wilmot?" Elsie asks Sister Frances who seems pleased to be asked.

"Of course. I'll clean up mother after the baby is done feeding. Maybe there is a way you can bring up something to eat and drink for Mrs Wilmot, she's done very well, but she needs fortification."

Elsie turns around one last time before leaving the room, drinking in the sight of her girl with her newborn.

* * *

Elsie is washing up all the dirty dishes and cups from the day, there's a kettle on the boil to make everyone a nice cup of tea. They can use it after the day they've all had. Gregory is in his study, working on the announcement of his daughter's birth, Beatrice is supposed to be resting. Elsie has been tidying and pulling the house into shape. She's not paid much attention to her husband and she is a bit surprised to feel his hands on her hips. She had not heard him come into the kitchen.

He picks up a tea towel and starts drying the cups and saucers.

"You've not seen the baby yet, have you?" She suddenly understands why he is helping her. He must have felt lonely, useless. She steps closer to him.

"No. I've not seen either of them yet…" He sounds a bit hurt.

"When we're done here, I'll take you up. Bea will be happy to see you." She places the last plate on the drainer and waits for him to dry it. She puts everything away and takes her husband's hand before turning to him, cuddling up close. She kisses him tenderly. "You'll see…" She whispers. "It's really special."

She leads him up the stairs and goes into the room after knocking, checking if Bea is decent first. Bea has the baby to her breast and Elsie motions for Charles to wait a tick.

"There is someone here who really wishes to see with his own eyes that you are alright." She asks. She kisses Bea's hair, strokes the baby's cheek. She's not feeding, just snuggling.

"I'll cover up." Bea is taking to her new role as mother like a duck to water. She is a natural and Elsie is both relieved and happy.

"I'll go get him."

She finds him standing in the hall, staring at one of Greg's paintings. "You know, he is really rather good."

She isn't surprised he heard her coming. "They are ready to see you."

He takes a visible breath and follows her. The room is basking in soft light as it filters through the thin curtains and Bea is looking tired but well after having been carefully bathed by Elsie earlier. Elsie pulls the chair away from Bea's vanity and places it by the bed, an open invitation for Charles to sit down. He takes her hint (doesn't he almost always? doesn't she try to steer him in the right direction day after day?) and sits down, gingerly kissing Bea's cheek. He touches the baby's tiny hand and she wraps it around his finger. Elsie can see the child jump straight into Charles' heart.

"Look Susie…" Bea says, holding the baby up a bit. "It's Granddad… he's come to meet you."


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N:** Hang in there guys, only this (full and fluffy) chapter and the epilogue to go now!

* * *

"Can I 'old 'er, d'you think?" Elsie can hear Daisy ask Mrs Patmore.

"It's not up to me, Daisy, but with dirty hands and a filthy apron on I doubt it." The cook answers and Elsie cannot help but smile a bit. Daisy flits by her in search of a clean pinny and Beryl is wiping her hands on a towel. They are all anticipating Susie Wilmot's visit. The girl who has brought a spring to the Butler's step and who keeps the Housekeeper's knitting needles occupied.

There's a fair few of them sitting at the Servants' Hall table. Anna is mending something, Mr Bates is pouring tea for himself and his wife. Thomas is smoking and reading the newspaper. Jimmy butters a slice of bread. Then there's finally a knock on the door and one of the younger maids goes to answer it.

Beatrice is looking well, a faint flush gracing her cheeks and a proud smile curling her lips. Susie is obscured by a fluffy white blanket that Elsie recognises as the one she made. She quickly makes her way to her girl and takes the baby from her with practiced ease.

"James, will you take Mrs Wilmot's coat? And maybe your hat too?" She asks Bea and the young mother nods, pulling the fashionable cloche from her dark wavy hair. She hands it to James and shrugs out of her coat, letting it fall into his waiting hands.

Elsie kisses Bea and leads her to sit in Charles chair and settles down beside her, unwrapping Susie like a present. Her tiny babe, almost a month old, looks her calmly in the eye and Elsie is momentarily overwhelmed by the love she feels for this fragile creature.

"How are you?" She asks Beatrice who is being waited on by Mr Bates. Anna places two biscuits on the saucer of Bea's cup of tea.

"Well. Quite well. I'm lucky, the midwife says. Apparently Susie is a good baby." She leans a little towards Elsie and softly strokes the downy hair of her daughter.

"She's looking very well." Elsie assesses.

"Bea?" Elsie whispers conspiredly. "Would it be alright for Daisy to hold Susie for a bit? She's washed her hands and changed her apron. She can sit here so you can keep an eye on her."

Beatrice laughs. "Of course! Of course she can. And I'm pretty sure Anna would like a bit of a snuggle as well." She smiles at Anna, who blushes a bit, but smiles back. "Thank you so much for writing." Bea addresses Anna. "Your letters really were highlights of some of those first days. Your advice has been so very much appreciated." Bea grabs Anna's hand and squeezes it. "I've brought something for you." She then says and Elsie watches the exchange between her two girls with a tear in her eye.

Susie yawns and Elsie coos at her. "Are you a little sleepy? Oh my little love..." She gets up and rocks the baby. From the corner of her eye she sees Daisy hovering in the hall.

"Mrs Wilmot is hungry. Could someone make her a sandwich? Maybe you can bring it in, Daisy?" She calls to the assistant cook.

"Yes, Mrs Carson!"

Scheming, Elsie thinks, is possibly one of her greatest talents.

* * *

Where can Charles be? He knew Bea was coming over for tea and he's not been down to see her yet, or his granddaughter, which is nothing like him. Bea and Anna have taken refuge in her parlour, needing to 'discuss something' neither was comfortable doing in the Servants' Hall. Daisy was called back into the kitchen, Beryl fussed over the baby for a minute or two and everyone went back to work, leaving Elsie on her own and with the opportunity to find her husband.

With the warm body of Susie against her she walks the stairs, peeks into room after room, until she returns downstairs. Of course he would be in the last room she checks. He is standing by the window, his hands automatically wiping a glass whilst he looks out on the grounds. The library is his favourite room, she knows, but his posture isn't as upright as it usually is.

"We couldn't find you anywhere…" She says softly.

He turns and the melancholy look on his face is chased away and replaced with tenderness as he sees the sleeping newborn in Elsie's arms.

"The family required more attention than they usually do in the afternoon. I think changes are going to come to Downton, Elsie." She cannot make out if he is sanguine or sad. He leans over her and kisses her softly before giving Susie his full attention.

"She is a little beauty, isn't she?" It's a rhetorical question, though Elsie agrees. It's a dainty, pretty little thing. She smiles at her husband and carefully places his granddaughter in his arms. Susie hardly fusses and Charles rocks her for a moment, settling her easily.

"There you go." Elsie says.

They stand together, looking at their grandchild. For a short moment there's just them. No duty, no bells. Only this cloak of love and happiness covering them. Charles clears his throat and Elsie sees a tear trickling down his cheek.

"What's the matter, my love?" She gently wipes his tear away, kisses his lips softly.

"Sometimes I dream of you…" He answers, his eyes on Susie. "Of you as you once were, when you came here that harsh winter… do you remember?"

Elsie nods, patiently waiting for him to continue.

"I dream it's you with a child, a brand new little baby, and you hold it close to you in our bed…"

"Oh, don't…" She chides him, cupping his cheek. "Don't. There's no need for regrets, Charles. We have our girls, they are downstairs, chatting. Sharing secrets even. And we have Susie. We have it all, my love. There is no need to linger on 'what if's' and 'what might have been's'."

"I'm so sorry, Els..."

"Don't be." She stands on her toes and kisses him. "Come. I'll fix you a nice cuppa. Daisy made custard tarts, I saved you one."

* * *

He nods, returns Susie (he is amazed how the baby doesn't mind being jostled about like this, back and forth between people) to Elsie and follows her, keeping up to hold the door for her and her precious cargo.

They arrive in a silent corridor, the door to Elsie's parlour still shut tight. He ushers her into his pantry, pleasantly surprised to find the teapot under its' knitted cozy, a small plate with the offered custard tart beside it. He busies himself with cups, with pouring, only interrupted by a soft whimpering sound from Susie.

He turns to find Elsie in her usual chair, the baby fidgeting against her breast.

His heart almost stops, his dream too fresh to ignore. But Elsie smiles at her granddaughter. "Are you hungry, my little love?" She asks, her voice a higher tone, sounding happy and cheerful. "Do you want your mother?" She cuddles the baby, kisses her rosy cheeks, lets her grab at her fingers.

_There's no need for regrets_, she just told him. Not ten minutes ago.

But it's damn hard to ignore.

* * *

"You had a long chat with Bea." Elsie says to Anna as they stand watching Charles help Beatrice into the car. He kisses her cheeks. Elsie can see he has a hard time pulling himself away from the baby.

"Did we? Yes, I suppose we did." Anna answers non-committedly.

"Good. I am glad you two get along."

They both look ahead. Greg is starting the car, Bea waves. They wave back, smiling.

"So am I. It's nice to have someone like Bea to talk to."

Elsie nods understanding. "It's a lonely when you are in a senior position." She says. "Especially when there is no-one close in age working close with you."

"Yes. It's nice to have a friend. Someone who… Someone who is close and understands, but who is not working with you, where you don't have to keep your distance."

Elsie nods. "And did she understand?"

"Yes, I think so." Elsie looks at Anna who is wearing an enigmatic smile.

"Good." She decides not to pry.

"Yes. Well. Best get back to work, I'm behind on almost everything!" Anna turns on her heel, walking away with confident steps.

* * *

"Stop fidgeting…" She grumbles, being kept awake by her husband's tossing and turning and dramatic sighing.

"I'm not." He answers.

"What's wrong? You've been in a mood ever since Bea and Susie left." She rolls over on her back and pushes herself up on her elbows. He has turned on the light on the nightstand and is rubbing his face with his hands.

"There's nothing _wrong_."

"Good. Then turn out the light and let me get some sleep." She falls back against her pillow and rolls over, trying to find the perfect spot (the perfect spot is with her bum against him and his hand upon her hip. His breath soft against her naked shoulder, his chest hair soft against her back).

She doesn't hear the light switch and she doesn't feel him turn to her.

"Charles… Whatever is the matter?" She has to be up in six hours, she is getting rather cranky.

"Those changes… That I spoke of earlier…" He starts and halts.

"Yes?"

"I don't think I want to be part of those."

Now she scrambles up and looks at him, wide awake from his confession.

"What do you mean?"

"I think it's time I admitted that I've fought a good fight, but…" He stares at the ceiling. She can see him following the crack in the plaster. It's been there for as long as she can remember.

"You shouldn't think of your work as a battle, my love." She says and softly brushes his rogue curl away from his forehead.

"I didn't used to. Or maybe I always have, but I am getting tired of war. I don't want to be serving tea to people who can easily look after themselves when I know my family is downstairs waiting for me."

"We came up to find you." Elsie says reasonably.

"Yes. And we had one cup of tea together, you and me while we looked after Susie until she needed to be looked after by her mother."

"It's always been like this. There is nothing new, nothing's changed. The family will always be ringing bells and asking for things they could do themselves if they bothered to."

"It's different for you." He lets out a sigh like a storm.

"Perhaps." She admits. She never was very attached to the family or to the house. She's worked hard and long and loyally and she had been rewarded for it. Life could just as easily gone completely different for her and she would have been content with her lot then.

"I think it's time I retired." He finally says and Elsie takes his hand.

"Sleep on it. Think it over. Don't decide anything right away." She knows he can smell that special new baby smell on her still, she can smell it herself. She loves it. She will not say it aloud, because it's not her place, but she hopes Susie won't be an only child. She can see Bea and Greg with another baby, they look so devoted to each other and so happy to have their little girl.

"I'm not deciding anything." He says. And she knows what he means.

He feels like it's being decided for him.

And maybe that's for the best.


	20. Epilogue

**A/N: **This is where our story comes to a close. SOPPINESS ALERT!

Thank you everybody for reviewing, following and favoriting. Your kindness and encouragement has meant so much to me (and still does!). Special thanks to Hogwarts Duo / Chelsie-Carson for giving me a bunny to adopt. It thrived! Thank you, wonderful person!

* * *

**June**

"Those…" She swats Charles' hand as he tries to steal a biscuit from the sheet as they stand to cool. "... Are for our guests!"

"Am I not a treasured guest?" He asks.

"No. You are my husband." She smiles and she wraps her arms around his waist and looks up into his eyes. "There will be plenty more biscuits in your future."

He leans in to kiss her and she enjoys the soft plumpness of his lips on hers. "They'll be here any moment…" She warns before giving in to him. He palms her bottom firmly, pulls her close. Their kisses grow more heated. She almost doesn't hear the knock at the front door.

"Let me go, you daft man." She tears herself away from Charles and hurries to open her house to their guests. "Will you make tea?" She calls over her shoulder and opens the door to find Bea - holding a cheering Susie - and Anna on the doorstep.

"Hello…" She says, a bit bewildered. She had expected Bea with Greg and the baby, but not Anna.

"Hello!" They both say and Elsie lets her girls in.

"Greg not here?" She asks.

"He is wiping something from the hood of the car." Bea smirks and hands over her daughter. Elsie cuddles her granddaughter. The tiny baby is now a sturdy little one year old who pulls herself up to stand and crawls around the furniture so swiftly, Elsie has put anything breakable on higher shelves.

"So it's three for tea and one for milk." Elsie says and leads her guests to the garden. "Leave the door open, Gregory can close it when he comes in."

The girls follow her and there is something off about them. Something _different_. She's always hated an atmosphere, but she tries to ignore it. Unsuccessfully. She hands Susie over to Charles who takes her to see the birdhouse he has nailed against the small walnut tree that stands in the middle of the garden and sits down by the table on the cobbled terrace.

She pours tea for everyone, passes the plate with biscuits and after taking her sip, she sits back and says:

"What's wrong?"

Anna and Bea look at each other sheepishly.

"We ran into each other in front of the house." Bea explains.

"I didn't know they were coming over. I had a bit of free time and it's such a lovely day…" Anna adds and Elsie is getting rather impatient. From behind her she can hear Charles' rumbling voice tell of sparrows in flight and naming the colours of her perennials. She has no doubt her granddaughter will be muddy from head to toe when she comes for her cup of milk.

"Hmm…" Elsie drinks her tea carefully, waits for either of the girls to get on with it.

"Greg and I came to have tea and to let you have a bit of time with Susie." Bea takes a furtive look at Anna who is colouring slowly, her cheeks already a rosy red.

"And to give you an early Christmas present. But then I think we are not the only ones." Bea grabs Anna's hand.

"It's early days yet…" Anna says and Elsie's heart speeds up.

"Charles!" She calls out and doesn't look where she puts her teacup. It falls apart on the stones of the terrace. She doesn't notice it and she calls to him again.

He makes his way over, alarmed and she clasps her hand over her mouth, trying to push away her tears that start falling nonetheless.

"Elsie? What's wrong?" He asks and she shakes her head.

"Not wrong…" She says and addresses Anna. "Is it really true?"

Anna is crying too and pushes back her chair, falls into Elsie's arms. "It is. I'm… I mean, John and I… we're… yes…"

"And you too?"

Bea laughs and nods.

"What is going on?" Charles asks bewildered, a bit taken aback by the amount of tears from his wife and Anna whilst Bea is smiling widely.

"We've given Grandma her Christmas present." Bea says and Elsie is laughing through her tears.

"What?"

"They're both expecting." Elsie says and she grabs his hand, thinking how he is adorably slow sometimes and it is so telling that he can know the difference between wines within one whiff, but cannot see what is happening in front of him at this very moment.

"Expecting wha'..." Realisation dawns and he is speechless. He squeezes Elsie's hand rather tightly, emotion overwhelming him too. Then she feels something tugging at her hem of her dress and it's Susie trying to pull herself up. Elsie bends to pick her granddaughter up and Gregory comes through the door. He stops short when he sees the small gathering of people. Anna and Elsie still with tears in the eyes, Bea being enveloped in Charles' arms smiling widely.

"So you've told them?" He asks dryly.

"Yes." Bea answers and Elsie's heart still beats out of sync. "Anna and I both did."

"Oh! That is wonderful." He says excitedly and looks around.

"Any more tea in the pot?"

* * *

**Another September**

"The spare room is getting too small." She says as she snuggles up to Charles. His arm slips around her, already heavy with sleep.

"Hmm…" He responds and she wraps herself around him, her lips on his cheek as she speaks.

"There's four children in that bed, Susie in the middle and Anna's Jack curled against her with Teddy and Ella at the foot end …"

"Hmm…" His hand slowly makes it's way from her back to her bum. "And that's a problem?"

"Not now… but it will be when they grow older… and…" She kisses him softly. She can feel him stirring against her, he drowsily nuzzles her neck.

"And… and what?"

"Bea dropped off the children this morning and she brought some news with her…" She presses herself against him.

"Don't tell me… another?"

"Yes… another. Good thing they have that big house with all those rooms to fill."

"How can they be having another baby, Elsie?" He asks and pulls her on top of him. They may be getting on, but he is as strong as he was when they just left Downton, when he carried crate after crate of wine and champagne, when he walked up endless stairs with silver tea services. Must be swirling all those toddlers around.

"They're in love, Charles. They are so in love." She whispers in his ear. He is under her, she rocks slowly above him.

"We're in love…" He says, taking the hem of her nightie in his hand and pulling it up her thighs, over her bottom, revealing the small of her back.

"Hmm… we are… and today we have a house full of children too…"

He artfully slides her up and her nightgown over her head. He kisses her fiercely. He his hard against her center, her knickers are riding up, giving her a kind of friction she rather has him provide. She rolls off him, sliding them off and hooking her thumbs under the elastic of his shorts. He won't let up his kisses and she is starting to get slightly lightheaded with both want and lack of air.

He helps her get his shorts down, leaning on one elbow planted next to her shoulder. Her breasts are against his chest, his gray curls grazing her nipples and she arches against him wantonly.

When he stops his kisses, she has her legs wrapped around him, the tip of him teasing her and she bucks up.

"What is the matter…" She breathes, her voice raspy.

"Nothing…" He kisses her cheek, runs his thumb over her lips. "We're living a fantasy tonight, aren't we…"

And she understands. Oh, how she understands. Had they been braver, stronger, more true to themselves, those children sprawled in the bed in the spare room could have been theirs. Had they been young and strong, they would have been like Bea and Greg - happy and in love, filling room after room with little blue eyed, dark haired children.

But as it is, it's their grandchildren. Anna's boy and Bea's brood are in that room and it's magnificent. It's more than she had ever dreamed of.

"We aren't… we're just two people..." She pulls his against her, lifts herself up so he is fully sheathed inside her. "In love."

They move together slowly, lovingly. She kisses him where she can, holds on to him. "I love you…" She says softly and he stills again.

"Elsie Hughes…" He says and she smiles. "Love of my life…"

* * *

**Christmas morning**

They hardly fit in the cottage when they are all together, so Christmas celebrations have been moved to Bea's house. Charles and Elsie are in Teddy's room, Anna and John in Ella's and it's early. Elsie lies awake, tracing patterns on her husband's chest. Christmas has become special since they left service. There's no need to cater to the family, no counting silver and polishing crystal and running up and down stairs with fresh linens. No rooms to straighten and beds to make.

It won't be long until Susie and Jack will come in to wake them. It's Christmas morning - stockings and raisin toast and milky tea. Stolen kisses when the children aren't looking - there are so many children to love now. Bea and Greg, Anna and John. Susie and Teddy and Ella and Jack. The new baby that lives under Bea's heart for now, growing strong until it's time to make an appearance in the real world.

Charles snores softly and she smiles. Outside the door she can hear footsteps and the doorknob being handled clumsily.

"Here they come…" She tells Charles who grunts.

"Grandma! It's Christmas!" Susie storms in, the others in her wake. They clamber on the bed and Elsie cuddles the children one by one. "Happy Christmas." She greets them and breathes in the scent of freshly washed toddler hair.

"Granddad! Come on! It's Christmas!" Susie jumps on top of him and Elsie cannot help but grab her.

"Don't! You'll hurt him!"

Charles lets out a strangled moan. "She's getting big…"

"Granddad!" Susie insists. "Come on! Father Christmas must have come! I think I heard him last night!"

Charles scrambles up. "You heard him? Hmm… I doubt it. He only comes when you're sleeping."

"Come oh-hon!" Jack chimes in with his little sing song voice.

They don their robes and take the children downstairs as quietly as they can. Elsie fixes milky tea for everyone and puts several slices of raisin bread through the toaster before slathering them in butter.

She settles next to Charles on the sofa and watches the children with their stockings.

"Happy Christmas, Granddad…" She says as she leans against him.

"Happy Christmas, Grandma." He kisses the top of her head.

* * *

**Christmas - after dinner**

One by one the children had been brought up to bed, taking their most prized possessions with them. Charles told them stories as Elsie kissed them goodnight and their parents took care of the actual tucking in. Now they are all sitting in front of the fire, nursing glasses of port and cups of tea, leisurely snacking on pieces of Christmas pudding and crackers with cheese.

"There are still a few gifts to be given out." Bea says, looking too comfortable to move, her belly round under the throw Gregory has wrapped her in.

"I think your gift has to wait a fair bit." Elsie says and Charles shakes his head.

Bea chuckles. "None of ours, I'm afraid, we're all present-ed out." She points at one little parcel that lays hidden underneath the Christmas tree.

Seeing everyone so comfortable and slightly drowsy, Elsie takes it upon herself to get up and retrieve it.

"It's for us." She says after checking the card, she can feel Anna's eyes upon her back.

"Us?"

"Yes, you and me, Mr Carson." Her 'R' rolls smoothly off her tongue.

He sits up and puts his port on the table. The gift is wrapped neatly, Elsie recognises Anna's handwriting on the tag. She pulls at the red ribbon, putting it on the table next to her, keeping it for further use - ever frugal.

The paper falls away to reveal something knitted. Her breath hitches.

"What a wonderful present, Anna…" She manages, before tears start coming. She blames the excitement of the day, the two glasses of port on top of the brandy butter.

But Anna is crying too and Bea is tearing up as well. The men sit around, a bit befuzzled.

"Elsie?" Charles asks, not having seen what was in their gift.

Elsie holds it up.

A pair tiny, white, fluffy socks.


End file.
